UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT   LOS  ANGELES 


WIT 


TALES  OF  NEW  ENGLAND 


BY 


SARAH    ORNE  JEWETT 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY 
(Cfre  fttoersibe  press, 
1895 


119831 


Copyright,  1879, 
B*  HOUGHTON,  O8GOOD  &  CO. 

Copyright,  1883,  1886,  and  1888, 
BY  SARAH  ORNE  JEWETT. 

Copyright,  1804, 
BY  HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN   &  CO. 

All  rigfits  reserved. 


:'    Tin  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge^ffaitt.,  T'.  .<?.  .1. 
,  ieiectrotyped  and  Printed  by  H.  O.  Houghton  &  0<x 


S 


CONTENTS. 


Miss  TEMP Y' s  WATCHERS 7 

THE  DULHAM  LADIES 28 

AN  ONLY  SON .    54 

MARSH  ROSEMARY 101 

A  WHITE  HERON 138 

LAW  LANE 159 

A  LOST  LOVER 211 

THE  COURTING  OF  SISTER  WISBY       ...      246 


MISS   TEMPY'S   WATCHEES. 


THE  time  of  year  was  April ;  the  place  was 
a  small  farming  town  in  New  Hampshire, 
remote  from  any  railroad.  One  by  one  the 
lights  had  been  blown  out  in  the  scattered 
houses  near  Miss  Tempy  Dent's  ;  but  as  her 
neighbors  took  a  last  look  out-of-doors,  their 
eyes  turned  with  instinctive  curiosity  toward 
the  old  house,  where  a  lamp  burned  steadily. 
They  gave  a  little  sigh.  "  Poor  Miss  Tem- 
py!" said  more  than  one  bereft  acquaint- 
ance ;  for  the  good  woman  lay  dead  in  her 
north  chamber,  and  the  light  was  a  watch- 
er's light.  The  funeral  was  set  for  the  next 
day,  at  one  o'clock. 

The  watchers  were  two  of  the  oldest 
friends,  Mrs.  Crowe  and  Sarah  Ann  Binson. 
They  were  sitting  in  the  kitchen,  because  it 
seemed  less  awesome  than  the  unused  best 
room,  and  they  beguiled  the  long  hours  by 
steady  conversation.  One  would  think  that 


8  MISS  TEMPTS  WATCHERS. 

neither  topics  nor  opinions  would  hold  out, 
at  that  rate,  all  through  the  long  spring 
night ;  but  there  was  a  certain  degree  of  ex- 
citernent  just  then,  and  the  two  women  hud 
risen  to  an  unusual  level  of  expressivt  n<  ss 
and  confidence.  Each  had  already  told  the 
other  more  than  one  fact  that  she  had  deter- 
mined to  keep  secret ;  they  were  again  and 
again  tempted  into  statements  that  either 
would  have  found  impossible  by  daylight. 
Mrs.  Crowe  was  knitting  a  blue  yarn  stock- 
ing for  her  husband;  the  foot  was  already 
so  long  that  it  seemed  as  if  she  must  have 
forgotten  to  narrow  it  at  the  proper  time. 
Mrs.  Crowe  knew  exactly  what  she  was 
about,  however ;  she  was  of  a  much  cooler 
disposition  than  Sister  Binson,  who  made 
futile  attempts  at  some  sewing,  only  to  drop 
her  work  into  her  lap  whenever  the  talk  was 
most  engaging. 

Their  faces  were  interesting,  —  of  the  dry, 
shrewd,  quick-witted  New  England  type, 
with  thin  hair  twisted  neatly  back  out  of  the 
way.  Mrs.  Crowe  could  look  vague  and  be- 
nignant, and  Miss  Binson  was,  to  quote  her 
neighbors,  a  little  too  sharp-set ;  but  the 
world  knew  that  she  had  need  to  be,  with  the 
load  she  must  carry  of  supporting  an  ineffi- 


MISS  TEMPTS  WATCHERS.  9 

cient  widowed  sister  and  six  unpromising 
and  unwilling  nieces  and  nephews.  The  eld- 
est boy  was  at  last  placed  with  a  good  man 
to  learn  the  mason's  trade.  Sarah  Ann  Bin- 
son,  for  all  her  sharp,  anxious  aspect,  never 
defended  herself,  when  her  sister  whined 
and  fretted.  She  was  told  every  week  of  her 
life  that  the  poor  children  never  would  have 
had  to  lift  a  finger  if  their  father  had  lived, 
and  yet  she  had  kept  her  steadfast  way  with 
the  little  farm,  and  patiently  taught  the 
young  people  many  useful  things,  for  which, 
as  everybody  said,  they  would  live  to  thank 
her.  However  pleasureless  her  life  appeared 
to  outward  view,  it  was  brimful  of  pleasure 
to  herself. 

Mrs.  Crowe,  on  the  contrary,  was  well  to 
do,  her  husband  being  a  rich  farmer  and  an 
easy-going  man.  She  was  a  stingy  woman, 
but  for  all  that  she  looked  kindly ;  and  when 
she  gave  away  anything,  or  lifted  a  finger  to 
help  anybody,  it  was  thought  a  great  piece 
of  beneficence,  and  a  compliment,  indeed, 
which  the  recipient  accepted  with  twice  as 
much  gratitude  as  double  the  gift  that  came 
from  a  poorer  and  more  generous  acquaint- 
ance. Everybody  liked  to  be  on  good  terms 
with  Mrs.  Crowe.  Socially  she  stood  much 


JO  V18S  TKMPY'S  ]\-.irri//;i;s. 

higher  than  Sarah  Ann  Binson.  They  were 
both  old  schoolmates  and  friends  of  Tem- 
perance Dent,  who  had  asked  them,  one  day, 
not  long  before  she  died,  if  they  would  not 
come  together  and  look  after  the  house, 
and  manage  everything,  when  she  was  gone. 
JBhe  may  have  had  some  hope  that  they  might 
become  closer  friends  in  this  period  of  inti- 
mate partnership,  and  that  the  richer  woman 
might  better  understand  the  burdens  of  the 
poorer.  They  had  not  kept  the  house  the 
night  before ;  they  were  too  weary  with  the 
care  of  their  old  friend,  whom  they  had  not 
left  until  all  was  over. 

There  was  a  brook  which  ran  down  the 
hillside  very  near  the  house,  and  the  sound 
of  it  was  much  louder  than  usual.  When 
there  was  silence  in  the  kitchen,  the  busy 
stream  had  a  strange  insistence  in  its  wild 
voice,  as  if  it  tried  to  make  the  watchers  un- 
derstand something  that  related  to  the  past. 

"  I  declare,  I  can't  begin  to  sorrow  for 
Tempy  yet.  I  am  so  glad  to  have  her  at 
rest,"  whispered  Mrs.  Crowe.  "  It  is  strange 
to  set  here  without  her,  but  I  can't  make  it 
clear  that  she  has  gone.  I  feel  as  if  she  had 
got  easy  and  dropped  off  to  sleep,  and  I  'in 
more  scared  about  waking  her  up  than  know- 
ing any  other  feeling." 


MISS   TEMPY'S  WATCHERS.  H 

"Yes,"  said  Sarah  Ann,  "it's  just  like 
that,  ain't  it  ?  But  I  tell  you  we  are  goin' 
to  miss  her  worse  than  we  expect.  She  's 
helped  me  through  with  many  a  trial,  has 
Temperance.  I  ain't  the  only  one  who  says 
the  same,  neither." 

These  words  were  spoken  as  if  there  were 
a  third  person  listening;  somebody  beside 
Mrs.  Crowe.  The  watchers  could  not  rid 
their  minds  of  the  feeling  that  they  were 
being  watched  themselves.  The  spring  wind 
whistled  in  the  window  crack,  now  and  then, 
and  buffeted  the  little  house  in  a  gusty  way 
that  had  a  sort  of  companionable  effect. 
Yet,  on  the  whole,  it  was  a  very  still  night, 
and  the  watchers  spoke  in  a  half-whisper. 

"  She  was  the  freest-handed  woman  that 
ever  I  knew,"  said  Mrs.  Crowe,  decidedly. 
"  According  to  her  means,  she  gave  away 
more  than  anybody.  I  used  to  tell  her 
't  wa'n't  right.  I  used  really  to  be  afraid 
that  she  went  without  too  much,  for  we  have 
a  duty  to  ourselves." 

Sister  Binson  looked  up  in  a  half-amused, 
unconscious  way,  and  then  recollected  her- 
self. 

Mrs.  Crowe  met  her  look  with  a  serious 
face.  "  It  ain't  so  easy  for  me  to  give  as  it 


12  MISS  TEMPY'S  WATCHERS. 

is  for  some,"  she  said  simply,  but  with  an  ef- 
fort which  was  made  possible  only  by  the  oc- 
casion. "  I  should  like;  to  say,  while  Tempy 
xis  laying  here  yet  in  her  own  house,  that  she 
has  been  a  constant  lesson  to  me.  Folks  are 
too  kind,  and  shame  me  with  thanks  for  what 
I  do.  I  ain't  such  a  generous  woman  as 
poor  Tempy  was,  for  all  she  had  nothin'  to 
do  with,  as  one  may  say." 

Sarah  Binson  was  much  moved  at  this 
confession,  and  was  even  pained  and  touched 
by  the  unexpected  humility.  "  You  have  a 
good  many  calls  on  you  "  —  she  began,  and 
then  left  her  kind  little  compliment  half  fin- 
ished. 

"  Yes,  yes,  but  I  've  got  means  enough. 
My  disposition  's  more  of  a  cross  to  me  as 
I  grow  older,  and  I  made  up  my  mind  this 
morning  that  Tempy's  exain£h£^shojdd_be 
my  pattern  henceforth."  She  began  to  knit 
faster  than  ever. 

"  'T  ain  't  no  use  to  get  morbid  :  that 's 
what  Tempy  used  to  say  herself,"  said  Sarah 
Ann,  after  a  minute's  silence.  "  Ain't  it 
strange  to  say  '  used  to  say  '  ?  "  and  her  own 
voice  choked  a  little.  "  She  never  did  like 
to  hear  folks  git  goin'  about  themselves." 

"  'T  was  only  because  they  're  apt  to  do  it 


MISS  TEMPT'S   WATCHERS.  13 

so  as  other  folks  will  say  't  was  n't  so,  an' 
praise  'em  up,"  humbly  replied  Mrs.  Crowe, 
"  and  that  ain't  my  object.  There  wa'n't  a 
child  but  what  Tempy  set  herself  to  work 
to  see  what  she  could  do  to  please  it.  One 
time  my  brother's  folks  had  been  stopping 
here  in  the  summer,  from  Massachusetts. 
The  children  was  all  little,  and  they  broke 
up  a  sight  of  toys,  and  left  'em  when  they 
were  going  away.  Tempy  come  right  up 
after  they  rode  by,  to  see  if  she  couldn't 
help  me  set  the  house  to  rights,  and  she 
caught  me  just  as  I  was  going  to  fling  some 
of  the  clutter  into  the  stove.  I  was  kind  of 
tired  out,  starting  'em  off  in  season.  '  Oh, 
give  me  them  !  '  says  she,  real  pleading ;  and 
she  wropped  'em  up  and  took  'em  home  with 
her  when  she  went,  and  she  mended  'em  up 
and  stuck  'em  together,  and  made  some  young 
one  or  other  happy  with  every  blessed  one. 
You'd  thought  I'd  done  her  the  biggest 
favor.  '  No  thanks  to  me.  I  should  ha' 
burnt  'em,  Tempy,'  says  I." 

"  Some  of  'em  came  to  our  house,  I 
know,"  said  Miss  Binson.  "  She  'd  take  a 
lot  o'  trouble  to  please  a  child,  'stead  o' 
shoving  of  it  out  o'  the  way,  like  the  rest  of 
us  when  we  're  drove." 


14  MISS   TEMPTS  WATCHERS. 

"  I  can  tell  you  the  biggest  thing  she  ever 
done,  and  I  don't  know 's  there's  :myl>o<ly 
left  but  me  to  tell  it.  I  don't  want  it  for- 
got," Sarah  Binson  went  on,  looking  up  at 
the  clock  to  see  how  the  night  was  going. 
"  It  was  that  pretty-looking  Trevor  girl,  who 
taught  the  Corners  school,  and  married  so 
well  afterwards,  out  in  New  York  State. 
You  remember  her,  I  dare  say  ?  " 

"  Certain,"  said  Mrs.  Crowe,  with  an  air 
of  interest. 

"  She  was  a  splendid  scholar,  folks  said, 
and  give  the  school  a  great  start ;  but  she  'd 
overdone  herself  getting  her  education,  and 
working  to  pay  for  it,  and  she  all  broke 
down  one  spring,  and  Tetnpy  made  her 
come  and  stop  with  her  a  while,  —  you  re- 
member that  ?  Well,  she  had  an  uncle,  her 
mother's  brother,  out  in  Chicago,  who  was 
well  off  and  friendly,  and  used  to  write  to 
Lizzie  Trevor,  and  I  dare  say  make  her 
some  presents  ;  but  he  was  a  lively,  driving 
man,  and  did  n't  take  time  to  stop  and  think 
about  his  folks.  He  had  n't  seen  her  since 
she  was  a  little  girl.  Poor  Lizzie  was  so 
pale  and  weakly  that  she  just  got  through  the 
term  o'  school.  She  looked  as  if  slu>  was  just 
going  straight  off  in  a  decline.  Tenipy,  she 


MISS  TEMPTS  WATCHERS.  15 

cosseted  her  up  a  while,  and  then,  next  thing 
folks  knew,  she  was  tellin'  round  how  Miss 
Trevor  had  gone  to  see  her  uncle,  and  meant 
to  visit  Niagary  Falls  on  the  way,  and  stop 
over  night.  Now  I  happened  to  know,  in 
ways  I  won't  dwell  on  to  explain,  that  the 
poor  girl  was  in  debt  for  her  schoolin'  when 
she  come  here,  and  her  last  quarter's  pay 
had  just  squared  it  off  at  last,  and  left  her 
without  a  cent  ahead,  hardly  ;  but  it  had 
fretted  her  thinking  of  it,  so  she  paid  it  all ; 
those  might  have  dunned  her  that  she  owed 
it  to.  An'  I  taxed  Tempy  about  the  girl's 
goin'  off  on  such  a  journey  till  she  owned 
up,  rather  'n  have  Lizzie  blamed,  that  she  'd 
given  her  sixty  dollars,  same  's  if  she  was 
rolling  in  riches,  and  sent  her  off  to  have  a 
good  rest  and  vacation." 

"  Sixty  dollars !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Crowe. 
"Tempy  only  had  ninety  dollars  a  year  that 
came  in  to  her ;  rest  of  her  livin'  she  got  by 
helpin'  about,  with  what  she  raised  off  this 
little  piece  o'  ground,  sand  one  side  an'  clay 
the  other.  An'  how  often  I  've  heard  her 
tell,  years  ago,  that  she  'd  rather  see  Niagary 
than  any  other  sight  in  the  world  !  " 

The  women  looked  at  each  other  in  si- 
lence;  the^magpitude  of  the  generous  sacri- 


16  MISS   TEMPT 3  WATCHERS. 

fice  was  almost  too  great  for  their  compre- 
hension. 

"  She  was  just  poor  enough  to  do  that !  " 
declared  Mrs.  Crowe  at  last,  in  an  abandon 
ment  of  feeling.  "  Say  what  you  may,  I 
feel  humbled  to  the  dust,"  and  her  coin] Kin- 
ion  ventured  to  say  nothing.  She  never  had 
given  away  sixty  dollars  at  once,  but  it  was 
simply  because  she  never  had  it  to  give.  It 
came  to  her  very  lips  to  say  in  explanation. 
"Tempy  was  so  situated;"  but  she  clu-ckcd 
herself  in  time,  for  she  would  not  betray 
her  own  loyal  guarding  of  a  dependent 
household. 

"Folks  say  a  great  deal  of  generosity, 
and  this  one's  being  public-sperited,  and 
that  one  free-handed  about  giving,"  said 
Mrs.  Crowe,  who  was  a  little  nervous  in  the 
silence.  "  I  suppose  we  can't  tell  the  sor- 
row it  would  be  to  some  folks  not  to  give, 
same's  'twould  be  to  me  not  to  save.  I 
seem  kind  of  made  for  that,  as  if  't  was  what 
I'd  got  to  do.  I  should  feel  sighfs  In-ttcr 
about  it  if  I  could  make  it  evident  what  I 
was  savin'  for.  If  I  had  a  child,  now,  Sa- 
rah Ann,"  and  her  voice  was  a  little  husky. 
—  "if  I  had  a  child,  I  should  think  1  was 
heapin'  of  it  up  because  lie  was  the  one 


JM/SS   TEMPTS    WATCHERS.  17 

trained  by  the  Lord  to  scatter  it  again  for 
good.  But  here  's  Mr.  Crowe  and  me,  we 
can't  do  anything  with  money,  and  both  of 
us  like  to  keep  things  same  's  they  Ve  always 
been.  Now  Priscilla  Dance  was  talking  away 
like  a  mill-clapper,  week  before  last.  She  'd 
think  I  would  go  right  off  and  get  one  o* 
them  new-fashioned  gilt-and-white  papers 
for  the  best  room,  and  some  new  furniture, 
an'  a  marble-top  table.  And  I  looked  at 
her,  all  struck  up.  '  Why,'  says  I,  '  Pris- 
cilla, that  nice  old  velvet  paper  ain't  hurt  a 
mite.  I  should  n't  feel  't  was  my  best  room 
without  it.  Dan'el  says  't  is  the  first  thing 
he  can  remember  rubbin'  his  little  baby  fin- 
gers on  to  it,  and  how  splendid  he  thought 
them  red  roses  was.'  I  maintain,"  continued 
Mrs.  Crowe  stoutly,  "that  folks  wastes 
sights  o'  good  money  cloin'  just  such  foolish 
things.  Tearin'  out  the  iusides  o'  meetin'- 
houses,  and  fixin'  the  pews  different ;  't  was 
good  enough  as  't  was  with  mendin' ;  then 
times  come,  an'  they  want  to  put  it  all  back 
same  's  't  was  before." 

This  touched  upon  an  exciting  subject  to 
active  members  of  that  parish.  Miss  Bin- 
son  and  Mrs.  Crowe  belonged  to  opposite  par- 
ties, and  had  at  one  time  come  as  near  hard 


18  MISS   TEMPTS  WATCII1  It*. 

feelings  as  they  could,  and  yet  escape  them. 
Each  hastened  to  speak  of  other  things  and 
to  show  her  untouched  friendlin 

"  I  do  agree  with  you,"  said  Sister  Binson, 
"  that  few  of  us  know  what  use  to  make 
of  money,  heyond  every -day  necessities. 
You  've  seen  more  o'  the  world  than  I  have, 
and  know  what 's  expected.  When  it  comes 
to  taste  and  judgment  about  such  things,  I 
ought  to  defer  to  others ;  "  and  with  this 
modest  avowal  the  critical  moment  passed 
when  there  might  have  been  an  improper 
discussion. 

In  the  silence  that  followed,  the  fact  of 
their  presence  in  a  house  of  death  grew  more 
clear  than  before.  There  was  something 
disturbing  in  the  noise  of  a  mouse  gnawing 
at  the  dry  boards  of  a  closet  wall  near  by. 
Both  the  watchers  looked  up  anxiously  at 
the  clock ;  it  was  almost  the  middle  of  the 
night,  and  the  whole  world  seemed  to  have 
left  them  alone  with  their  solemn  duty. 
Only  the  brook  was  awake. 

"Perhaps  we  might  give  a  look  up-st airs 
now,"  whispered  Mrs.  Crowe,  as  if  she 
hoped  to  hear  some  reason  against  their  go- 
ing just  then  to  the  chamber  of  death  :  but 
Sister  Binson  rose,  with  a  serious  and  yet 


MISS  TEMPTS  WATCHERS.  19 

satisfied  countenance,  and  lifted  the  small 
lamp  from  the  table.  She  was  much  more 
used  to  watching  than  Mrs.  Crowe,  and 
much  less  affected  by  it.  They  opened  the 
door  into  a  small  entry  with  a  steep  stair- 
way ;  they  climbed  the  creaking  stairs,  and 
entered  the  cold  upper  room  on  tiptoe. 
Mrs.  Crowe's  heart  began  to  beat  very  fast 
as  the  kmp  was  put  on  a  high  bureau,  and 
made  long,  fixed  shadows  about  the  walls. 
She  went  hesitatingly  toward  the  solemn 
shape  under  its  white  drapery,  and  felt  a 
sense  of  remonstrance  as  Sarah  Ann  gently, 
but  in  a  business-like  way,  turned  back  the 
thin  sheet. 

"  Seems  to  me  she  looks  pleasanter  and 
pleasanter,"  whispered  Sarah  Ann  Binson 
impulsively,  as  they  gazed  at  the  white  face 
with  its  wonderful  smile.  "To-morrow 
't  will  all  have  faded  out.  I  do  believe  they 
kind  of  wake  up  a  day  or  two  after  they  die, 
and  it  '3  then  they  go."  She  replaced  the 
light  covering,  and  they  both  turned  quickly 
away  ;  there  was  a  chill  in  this  upper  room. 

"  'T  is  a  great  thing  for  anybody  to  have 
got  through,  ain't  it?"  said  Mrs.  Crowe 
softly,  as  she  began  to  go  down  the  stairs 
on  tiptoe.  The  warm  air  from  the  kitchen 


20  MISS   TKMPrS    WATCHERS. 

beneath  met  them  with  a  sense  of  welcome 
and  shelter. 

"  I  don'  know  why  it  is,  but  I  feel  as 
near  again  to  Tempy  down  here  as  I  do  up 
there,"  replied  Sister  Binson.  "  I  feel  as  if 
the  air  was  full  of  her,  kind  of.  I  can  sense 
things,  now  and  then,  that  she  seems  to  say. 
Now  I  never  was  one  to  take  up  with  no 
nonsense  of  sperits  and  such,  but  I  declare  I 
felt  as  if  she  told  me  just  now  to  put  some 
more  wood  into  the  stove." 

Mrs.  Crowe  preserved  a  gloomy  silence. 
She  had  suspected  before  this  that  her  com- 
panion was  of  a  weaker  and  more  credulous 
disposition  than  herself.  "  'T  is  a  great 
thing  to  have  got  through,"  she  repeated, 
ignoring  definitely  all  that  had  last  been 
said.  "  I  suppose  you  know  as  well  as  I 
that  Tempy  was  one  that  always  feared 
death.  Well,  it 's  all  put  behind  her  now  ; 
she  knows  what  '  t  is."  Mrs.  Crowe  gave  a 
little  sigh,  and  Sister  Binson's  quick  sym- 
pathies were  stirred  toward  this  other  old 
friend,  who  also  dreaded  the  great  change. 

"  I  'd  never  like  to  forgit  almost  those  last 
words  Tempy  spoke  plain  to  me,"  she  said 
gently,  like  the  comforter  she  truly  w:is. 
"  She  looked  up  at  me  once  or  twice,  that 


MISS   TEMPTS   WATCHERS.  21 

last  afternoon  after  I  come  to  set  by  her,  and 
let  Mis'  Owen  go  home  ;  and  I  says,  4  Can  I 
do  anything  to  ease  you,  Tempy  ? '  and  the 
tears  come  into  my  eyes  so  I  could  n't  see 
what  kind  of  a  nod  she  give  me.  '  No,  Sarah 
Ann,  you  can't,  dear,'  says  she  ;  and  then 
she  got  her  breath  again,  and  says  she,  look- 
ing at  me  real  meanin',  '  I  'm  only  a-gettin' 
sleepier  and  sleepier;  that's  all  there  is,' 
says  she,  and  smiled  up  at  me  kind  of  wish- 
ful, and  shut  her  eyes.  I  knew  well  enough 
all  she  meant.  She  'd  been  lookin'  out  for 
a  chance  to  tell  me,  and  I  don'  know's  she 
ever  said  much  afterwards." 

Mrs.  Crowe  was  not  knitting;  she  had 
been  listening  too  eagerly.  "  Yes,  't  will  be 
a  comfort  to  think  of  that  sometimes,"  she 
said,  in  acknowledgment. 

"  I  know  that  old  Dr.  Prince  said  once, 
in  evenin'  meetin',  that  he  'd  watched  by 
many  a  dyin'  bed,  as  we  well  knew,  and 
enough  o'  his  sick  folks  had  been  scared  o' 
dyin'  their  whole  lives  through ;  but  when 
they  come  to  the  last,  he  'd  never  seen  one 
but  was  willin',  and  most  were  glad,  to  go. 
'  'T  is  as  natural  as  bein'  born  or  livin'  on,' 
he  said.  I  don't  know  what  had  moved  him 
to  speak  that  night.  You  know  he  wa'n't 


TEMPTS  WATCHERS. 

in  the  habit  of  it,  and  't  was  the  monthly 
concert  of  prayer  for  foreign  missions  any- 
ways," said  Sarah  Ann  ;  "  but 't  was  a  great 
stay  to  the  mind  to  listen  to  his  words  of  ex- 
perience." 

"  There  never  was  a  better  man,"  re- 
sponded Mrs.  Crowe,  in  a  really  cheerful 
tone.  She  had  recovered  from  her  feeling 
of  nervous  dread,  the  kitchen  was  so  com- 
fortable with  lamplight  and  firelight ;  and 
just  then  the  old  clock  began  to  tell  the  hour 
of  twelve  with  leisurely  whirring  strokes. 

Sister  Binson  laid  aside  her  work,  and 
rose  quickly  and  went  to  the  cupboard. 
"  We  'd  better  take  a  little  to  eat,"  she  ex- 
plained. "  The  night  will  go  fast  after  this. 
I  want  to  know  if  you  went  and  made  some 
o'  your  nice  cupcake,  while  you  was  home 
to-day  ?  "  she  asked,  in  a  pleased  tone  ;  and 
Mrs.  Crowe  acknowledged  such  a  gratify- 
ing piece  of  thoughtfulness  for  this  humble 
friend  who  denied  herself  all  luxuries. 
Sarah  Ann  brewed  a  generous  cup  of  tea, 
and  the  watchers  drew  their  chairs  up  to 
the  table  presently,  and  quelled  their  hun- 
ger with  good  country  appetites.  Sister  Bin- 
son  put  a  spoon  into  a  small,  old-fashioned 
glass  of  preserved  quince,  and  passed  it  to 


MISS  TEMPTS   WATCHERS.  23 

her  friend.  She  was  most  familiar  with 
the  house,  and  played  the  part  of  hostess. 
"  Spread  some  o'  this  on  your  bread  and 
butter,"  she  said  to  Mrs.  Crowe.  "  Tempy 
wanted  me  to  use  some  three  or  four  times, 
but  I  never  felt  to.  I  know  she  'd  like  to 
have  us  comfortable  now,  and  would  urge 
us  to  make  a  good  supper,  poor  dear." 

"  What  excellent  preserves  she  did 
make  !  "  mourned  Mrs.  Crowe.  "  None  of 
us  has  got  her  light  hand  at  doin'  things 
tasty.  She  made  the  most  o'  everything, 
too.  Now,  she  only  had  that  one  old  quince-  «• 
tree  down  in  the  far  corner  of  the  piece,  but 
she  'd  go  out  in  the  spring  and  tend  to  it, 
and  look  at  it  so  pleasant,  and  kind  of  ex- 
pect the  old  thorny  thing  into  bloomin'." 

"She  was  just  the  same  with  folks,"  said 
Sarah  Ann.  "  And  she  'd  never  git  more  'n 
a  little  apernful  o'  quinces,  but  she  'd  have 
every  mite  o'  goodness  out  o'  those,  and  set 
the  glasses  up  onto  her  best-room  closet 
shelf,  so  pleased.  'T  wa'n't  but  a  week  ago 
to-morrow  mornin'  I  fetched  her  a  little  taste 
o'  jelly  in  a  teaspoon  ;  and  she  says  '  Thank 
ye,'  and  took  it,  an'  the  minute  she  tasted  it 
she  looked  up  at  me  as  worried  as  could 
be.  '  Oh,  I  don't  want  to  eat  that,'  says  she. 


24  u/ss  TEMPTS  WATCHERS. 

'I  always  keep  that  in  case  o'  sid 
'  You  're  goin'  to  have  the  good  o'  one  tumbler 
yourself,'  says  I.  '  I  'd  just  like  to  know 
who's  sick  now,  if  you  ain't!'  An'  sin- 
could  n't  help  laughin',  I  spoke  up  so  smart. 
Oh,  dear  me,  how  I  shall  miss  talkin'  over 
tilings  with  her  !  She  always  sensed  things, 
and  got  just  the  p'int  you  meant." 

"  She  did  n't  begin  to  age  until  two  or 
three  years  ago,  did  she  ? "  asked  Mrs. 
Crowe.  "  I  never  saw  anybody  keep  her 
looks  as  Tempy  did.  She  looked  young  long 
after  I  begun  to  feel  like  an  old  woman. 
The  doctor  used  to  say  't  was  her  young 
heart,  and  I  don't  know  but  what  he  was 
right.  How  she  did  do  for  other  folks ! 
There  was  one  spell  sho  was  n't  at  home  a 
day  to  a  fortnight.  She  got  most  of  her 
livin'  so,  and  that  made  her  own  potatoes 
and  things  last  her  through.  None  o'  the 
young  folks  could  get  married  without  her, 
and  all  the  old  ones  was  disappointed  if  she 
wa'n't  round  when  they  was  down  with 
sickness  and  had  to  go.  An'  clean  in',  or 
tailorin'  for  boys,  or  rug-hookin',  —  there 
was  nothin'  but  what  she  could  do  as  handy 
as  most.  *  I  do  love  to  work,'  —  ain't  you 
heard  her  say  that  twenty  times  a  week  ?  "' 


TEMPTS  WATCHERS.  25 

Sarah  Ann  Binson  nodded,  and  began  to 
clear  away  the  empty  plates.  "We  may 
want  a  taste  o'  somethin'  more  towards 
mornin',"  she  said.  "  There  's  plenty  in  the 
closet  here ;  and  in  case  some  comes  from 
a  distance  to  the  funeral,  we  '11  have  a  little 
table  spread  after  we  get  back  to  the  house." 

"  Yes,  I  was  busy  all  the  mornin'.  I  've 
cooked  up  a  sight  o'  things  to  bring  over," 
said  Mrs.  Crowe.  "  I  felt  't  was  the  last  I 
could  do  for  her." 

They  drew  their  chairs  near  the  stove 
again,  and  took  up  their  work.  Sister  Bin- 
son's  rocking-chair  creaked  as  she  rocked  ; 
the  brook  sounded  louder  than  ever.  It  was 
more  lonely  when  nobody  spoke,  and  pres- 
ently Mrs.  Crowe  returned  to  her  thoughts 
of  growing  old. 

"  Yes,  Tempy  aged  all  of  a  sudden.  I 
remember  I  asked  her  if  she  felt  as  well  as 
common,  one  day,  and  she  laughed  at  me 
good.  There,  when  Mr.  Crowe  begun  to  look 
old,  I  could  n't  help  feeling  as  if  somethin' 
ailed  him,  and  like  as  not  'twas  somethin' 
he  was  goin'  to  git  right  over,  and  I  dosed 
him  for  it  stiddy,  half  of  one  summer." 

"  How  many  things  we  shall  be  wanting 
to  ask  Tempy ! "  exclaimed  Sarah  Ann 


2t>  MISS  TEMPTS  WATCHERS. 

Binson,  after  a  long  pause.  "  I  can't  make 
up  my  mind  to  doin'  without  her.  I  wish 
^/  folks  could  come  back  just  once,  and  tell  us 
how  'tis  where  they've  gone.  Seems  then 
we  could  do  without  'em  better." 

The  brook  hurried  on,  the  wind  blew 
about  the  house  now  and  then  ;  the  house 
itself  was  a  silent  place,  and  the  supper,  the 
warm  fire,  and  an  absence  of  any  new  topics 
for  conversation  made  the  watchers  drowsy. 
Sister  Binson  closed  her  eyes  first,  to  rest 
them  for  a  minute ;  and  Mrs.  Crowe  glanced 
at  her  compassionately,  with  a  new  sympathy 
for  the  hard -worked  little  woman.  She 
made  up  her  mind  to  let  Sarah  Ann  have  a 
good  rest,  while  she  kept  watch  alone;  but 
in  a  few  minutes  her  own  knitting  was 
dropped,  and  she,  too,  fell  asleep.  Over- 
head, the  pale  shape  of  Tempy  Dent,  the 
outworn  body  of  that  generous,  loving- 
xliearted,  simple  soul,  slept  on  also  in  its 
white  raiment.  Perhaps  Tempy  herself 
stood  near,  and  saw  her  own  life  and  its 
surroundings  with  new  understanding.  Per- 
haps she  herself  was  the  only  watcher. 

Later,  by  some  hours,  Sarah  Ann  Binson 
woke  with  a  start.     There  was  a  pale  light 


MISS  TEMPY'S    WATCHERS.  27 

of  dawn  outside  the  small  windows.  Inside 
the  kitchen,  the  lamp  burned  dim.  Mrs. 
Crowe  awoke,  too. 

"I  think  Tempy'd  be  the  first  to  say 
'twas  just  as  well  we  both  had  some  rest," 
she  said,  not  without  a  guilty  feeling. 

Her  companion  went  to  the  outer  door, 
and  opened  it  wide.  The  fresh  air  was 
none  too  cold,  and  the  brook's  voice  was  not 
nearly  so  loud  as  it  had  been  in  the  mid- 
night darkness.  She  could  see  the  shapes 
of  the  hills,  and  the  great  shadows  that  lay 
across  the  lower  country.  The  east  was  fast 
growing  bright. 

"'Twill  be  a  beautiful  day  for  the  fu- 
neral," she  said,  and  turned  again,  with  a 
sigh,  to  follow  Mrs.  Crowe  up  the  stairs. 


THE  DULHAM  LADIES. 


To  be  leaders  of  society  in  the  town  of 
Dulham  was  as  satisfactory  to  Miss  Dobin 
and  Miss  Lucinda  Dobin  as  if  Dulham  were 
London  itself.  Of  late  years,  though  they 
would  not  allow  themselves  to  suspect  such 
treason,  the  most  ill-bred  of  the  younger 
people  in  the  village  made  fun  of  them  be- 
hind their  backs,  and  laughed  at  their  treas- 
ured summer  mantillas,  their  mincing  steps, 
and  the  shape  of  their  parasols. 

They  were  always  conscious  of  the  fact 
that  they  were  the  daughters  of  a  once  emi- 
nent Dulham  minister ;  but  beside  this  un- 
answerable claim  to  the  respect  of  the  First 
Pai-ish,  they  were  aware  that  their  mother's 
social  position  was  one  of  superior  altitude. 
Madam  Dobin's  grandmother  was  a  Green- 
aple  of  Boston.  In  her  younger  days  she  had 
often  visited  her  relatives,  the  Greenaples 
and  Hightrees,  and  in  seasons  of  festivity 
she  could  relate  to  a  select  and  properly 


THE  DULUAM  LADIES.  29 

excited  audience  her  delightful  experiences 
of  town  life.  Nothing  could  be  finer  than 
her  account  of  having  taken  tea  at  Governor 
Clovenfoot's,  on  Beacon  Street,  in  company 
with  an  English  lord,  who  was  indulging 
himself  in  a  brief  vacation  from  his  arduous 
duties  at  the  Court  of  St.  James. 

"  He  exclaimed  that  he  had  seldom  seen 
in  England  so  beautiful  and  intelligent  a 
company  of  ladies,"  Madam  Dobin  would 
always  say  in  conclusion.  "  He  was  deco- 
rated with  the  blue  ribbon  of  the  Knights 
of  the  Garter."1  Miss  Dobin  and  Miss  Lu- 
cinda  thought  for  many  years  that  this  fa- 
mous blue  ribbon  was  tied  about  the  noble 
gentleman's  leg.  One  day  they  even  dis- 
cussed the  question  openly ;  Miss  Dobiu 
placing  the  decoration  at  his  knee,  and  Miss 
Lucinda  locating  it  much  lower  down,  ac- 
cording to  the  length  of  the  short  gray  socks 
with  which  she  was  familiar. 

"  You  have  no  imagination,  Lucinda," 
the  elder  sister  replied  impatiently.  "  Of 
course,  those  were  the  days  of  small-clothes 
and  long  silk  stockings !  "  —  whereat  Miss 
Lucinda  was  rebuked,  but  not  persuaded. 

"  I  wish  that  my  dear  girls  could  have 
the  outlook  upon  society  which  fell  to  my 


30  THE  DULffAM  LADIES. 

portion,"  Madam  Dobin  sighed,  after  slit- 
had  set  these  ignorant  minds  to  rights,  and 
enriched  them  by  communicating  the  final 
truth  about  the  blue  ribbon.  "  I  must  not 
chide  you  for  the  absence  of  opportunities, 
but  if  our  cousin  Harriet  Greenaple  were 
only  living,  you  would  not  laek  enjoyment 
or  social  education." 

Madam  Dobin  had  now  been  dead  a  great 
many  years.  She  seemed  an  elderly  woman 
to  her  daughters  some  time  before  she  left 
them  ;  they  thought  later  that  she  had  really 
died  comparatively  young,  since  their  own 
years  had  come  to  equal  the  record  of  hers. 
When  they  visited  her  tall  white  tombstone 
in  the  orderly  Dulham  bury  ing-ground,  it 
was  a  strange  thought  to  both  the  daughters 
that  they  were  older  women  than  their  mother 
had  been  when  she  died.  To  be  sure,  it  was 
the  fashion  to  appear  older  in  her  day,  — 
they  could  remember  the  sober  effect  of 
really  youthful  married  persons  in  cap  and 
frisette;  but,  whether  they  owed  it  to  the 
changed  times  or  to  their  own  qualities,  they 
vxielt  no  older  themselves  than  ever  they  had. 
Beside  upholding  the  ministerial  dignity  of 
their  father,  they  were  obliged  to  give  a 


THE  DULHAM  LADIES.  31 

lenient  sanction  to  the  ways  of  the  world 
for  their  mother's  sake  ;  and  they  combined 
the  two  duties  with  reverence  and  impartial- 
ity. 

Madam  Dobin  was,  in  her  prime,  a  walk- 
ing example  of  refinement  and  courtesy.  If 
she  erred  in  any  way,  it  was  by  keeping  too 
strict  watch  and  rule  over  her  small  king- 
dom. She  acted  with  great  dignity  in  all 
matters  of  social  administration  and  eti- 
quette, but,  while  it  must  be  owned  that  the 
parishioners  felt  a  sense  of  freedom  for  a 
time  after  her  death,  in  their  later  years 
they  praised  and  valued  her  more  and  more, 
and  often  lamented  her  generously  and  sin- 
cerely. 

Several  of  her  distinguished  relatives  at- 
tended Madam  Dobin's  funeral,  which  was 
long  considered  the  most  dignified  and  ele- 
gant pageant  of  that  sort  which  had  ever 
taken  place  in  Dulham.  It  seemed  to  mark 
the  close  of  a  famous  epoch  in  Dulham  his- 
tory, and  it  was  increasingly  difficult  forever 
afterward  to  keep  the  tone  of  society  up  to 
the  old  standard.  Somehow,  the  distin- 
guished relatives  had  one  by  one  disap- 
peared, though  they  all  had  excellent  rea- 
sons for  the  discontir  uance  of  their  visits. 


32  -mi-:  i> r i. ii AM  LADIES. 

A  few  had  left  this  world  altogether,  an<1 
the  family  circle  of  the  Greenaples  and 
Hightrees  was  greatly  reduced  in  circumfer- 
ence. Sometimes,  in  summer,  a  stray  con- 
nection drifted  Dulham-ward,  and  was  dis- 
played to  the  townspeople  (not  to  say 
paraded)  by  the  gratified  hostesses.  It  was 
a  disappointment  if  the  guest  could  not  be 
persuaded  to  remain  over  Sunday  and  ap- 
pear at  church.  When  household  antiqui- 
ties became  fashionable,  the  ladies  remarked 
upon  a  surprising  interest  in  their  corner 
cupboard  and  best  chairs,  and  some  distant 
relatives  revived  their  almost  forgotten  cus- 
tom of  paying  a  summer  visit  to  Dulham. 
They  were  not  long  in  finding  out  with 
what  desperate  affection  Miss  Dobin  and 
v/  Miss  Lucinda  clung  to  their  mother's  wed- 
ding china  and  other  inheritances,  and  were 
allowed  to  depart  without  a  single  teacup. 
One  graceless  descendant  of  the  Hightrees 
prowled  from  garret  to  cellar,  and  admired 
the  household  belongings  diligently,  but  she 
was  not  asked  to  accept  even  the  dislocated 
cherry-wood  footstool  that  she  had  discov- 
ered in  the  far  corner  of  the  parsonage  pew. 
Some  of  the  Dulham  friends  had  always 
suspected  that  Madam  Dobin  made  a  social 


THE  DULHAM  LADIES.  33 

misstep  when  she  chose  the  Reverend  Ed- 
ward Dobin  for  her  husband.  She  was  no 
longer  young  when  she  married,  and  though 
she  had  gone  through  the  wood  and  picked 
up  a  crooked  stick  at  last,  it  made  a  great 
difference  that  her  stick  possessed  an  eccle- 
siastical bark.  The  Reverend  Edward  was, 
moreover,  a  respectable  graduate  of  Harvard 
College,  and  to  a  woman  of  her  standards  a 
clergyman  was  by  no  means  insignificant. 
It  was  impossible  not  to  respect  his  office, 
at  any  rate,  and  she  must  have  treated  him 
with  proper  veneration  for  the  sake  of  that, 
if  for  no  other  reason,  though  his  early  ad- 
vantages had  been  insufficient,  and  he  was 
quite  insensible  to  the  claims  of  the  Green- 
aple  pedigree,  and  preferred  an  Indian  pud- 
ding to  pie  crust  that  was,  without  exag- 
geration, half  a  quarter  high.  The  delicacy 
of  Madam  Dobin's  touch  and  preference 
in  everything,  from  hymns  to  cookery,  was 
quite  lost  upon  this  respected  preacher,  yet 
he  was  not  without  pride  or  complete  confi- 
dence in  his  own  decisions. 

The  Reverend  Mr.  Dobin  was  never  very 
enlightening  in  his  discourses,  and  was  prov- 
identially stopped  short  by  a  stroke  of  paral- 
ysis in  the  middle  of  his  clerical  career.  He 


34  THE   hUUIAM  LADIES. 

lived  on  and  on  through  many  dreary  years, 
but  his  children  never  accepted  the  fact  that 
he  was  a  tyrant,  and  served  him  humbly  and 
patiently.  He  fell  at  last  into  a  condition 
of  great  incapacity  and  chronic  trembling, 
but  was  able  for  nearly  a  quarter  of  a  cen- 
tury to  be  carried  to  the  meeting-house  from 
time  to  time  to  pronounce  farewell  dis- 
courses. On  high  days  of  the  church  he 
was  always  placed  in  the  pulpit,  and  held 
up  his  shaking  hands  when  the  benediction 
was  pronounced,  as  if  the  divine  gift  were 
exclusively  his  own,  and  the  other  minister 
did  but  say  empty  words.  Afterward  he 
was  usually  tired  and  displeased  and  hard 
to  cope  with,  but  there  was  always  a  proper 
notice  taken  of  these  too  often  recurring 
events.  For  old  times'  and  for  pity's  sake 
and  from  natural  goodness  of  heart,  the 
elder  parishioners  rallied  manfully  about 
the  Reverend  Mr.  Dobin  ;  and  whoever  his 
successor  or  colleague  might  be,  the  Dobins 
were  always  called  the  minister's  folks,  while 
the  active  laborer  in  that  vineyard  was  only 
Mr.  Smith  or  Mr.  Jones,  as  the  case  might 
be.  At  last  the  poor  old  man  died,  to 
everybody's  relief  and  astonishment ;  and 
after  he  was  properly  preached  about  and 


THE  DULUAM  LADIES.  35 

lamented,  his  daughters,  Miss  Dobin  and 
Miss  Luciuda,  took  a  good  look  at  life  from 
a  new  standpoint,  and  decided  that,  now  they 
were  no  longer  constrained  by  home  duties, 
they  must  make  themselves  of  a  great  deal 
more  use  to  the  town. 

Sometimes  there  is  such  a  household  as 
this  (which  has  been  perhaps  too  minutely 
described),  where  the  parents  linger  until 
their  children  are  far  past  middle  age,  and  al- 
ways keep  them  in  a  too  childish  and  unwor- 
thy state  of  subjection.  The  Misses  Dobin's 
characters  were  much  influenced  by  such  an 
unnatural  prolongation  of  the  filial  relation- 
ship, and  they  were  amazingly  slow  to  suspect 
that  they  were  not  so  young  as  they  used  to 
be.  There  was  nothing  to  measure  them- 
selves by  but  Dulham  people  and  things. 
The  elm-trees  were  growing  yet,  and  many 
of  the  ladies  of  the  First  Parish  were  older 
than  they,  and  called  them,  with  pleasant 
familiarity,  the  Dobin  girls.  These  elderly 
persons  seemed  really  to  be  growing  old, 
and  Miss  Lucinda  frequently  lamented  the 
change  in  society ;  she  thought  it  a  freak  of 
nature  and  too  sudden  blighting  of  earthly 
hopes  that  several  charming  old  friends  of 
her  mother's  were  no  longer  living.  They 


36  THE  DULUAM  LADIES. 

were  advanced  in  age  when  Miss  Lucimla 
was  a  young  girl,  though  time  and  spurt-  arc 
but  relative,  after  all. 

Their  influence  upon  society  would  have 
made  a  great  difference  in  many  ways.  Cer- 
tainly, the  new  parishioners,  who  had  often 
enough  been  instructed  to  pronounce  their 
pastor's  name  as  if  it  were  spelled  with  one 
"  b,"  would  not  have  boldly  returned  again 
and  again  to  their  obnoxious  habit  of  saying 
Dobbin.  Miss  Luciuda  might  carefully 
speak  to  the  neighbor  and  new-comers  of 
"  my  sister,  Miss  Do-bin  ; "  only  the  select 
v/  company  of  intimates  followed  her  lead,  and 
at  last  there  was  something  humiliating 
about  it,  even  though  many  persons  spoke 
of  them  only  as  "  the  ladies." 

"  The  name  was  originally  D'Aubigne, 
we  think,"  Miss  Lucinda  would  say  coldly 
and  patiently,  as  if  she  had  already  ex- 
plained this  foolish  mistake  a  thousand 
times  too  often.  It  was  like  the  sorrows  in 
many  a  provincial  chateau  in  the  lleign  of 
Terror.  The  ladies  looked  on  with  increas- 
ing dismay  at  the  retrogression  in  society. 
They  felt  as  if  they  were  a  feeble  garri- 
J  son,  to  whose  lot  it  had  fallen  to  repul.-e  a 
noisy,  irreverent  mob,  an  increasing  band  of 


THE  DULJ1AM  LADIES.  37 

marauders  who  would  overthrow  all  land- 
marks of  the  past,  all  etiquette  and  sgcial 
rank.  The  new  minister  himself  was  a 
round-faced,  unspiritual-looking  young  man, 
whom  they  would  have  instinctively  ignored 
if  he  had  not  been  a  minister.  The  new 
people  who  came  to  Dulham  were  not  like 
the  older  residents,  and  they  had  no  desire 
to  be  taught  better.  Little  they  cared  about 
the  Greenaples  or  the  Hightrees  ;  and  once, 
when  Miss  Dobin  essayed  to  speak  of  some 
detail  of  her  mother's  brilliant  experiences 
in  Boston  high  life,  she  was  interrupted,  and 
the  new-comer  who  sat  next  her  at  the  parish 
sewing  society  began  to  talk  about  something 
else.  We  cannot  believe  that  it  could  have 
been  the  tea-party  at  Governor  Clovenfoot's 
which  the  rude  creature  so  disrespectfully 
ignored,  but  some  persons  are  capable  of 
showing  any  lack  of  good  taste. 

The  ladies  had  an  unusual  and  most  pain- 
ful sense  of  failure,  as  they  went  home  to- 
gether that  evening.  "  I  have  always  made 
it  my  object  to  improve  and  interest  the 
people  at  such  times  ;  it  would  seem  so  pos- 
sible to  elevate  their  thoughts  and  direct 
them  into  higher  channels,"  said  Miss  Dobin 
sadly.  "  But  as  for  that  Woolden  woman, 


119331 


88  THE  DULUAM  LADIES. 

there  is  no  use  in  casting  pearls  before 
swine  ! " 

Miss  Lucinda  murmured  an  indignant  as- 
sent. She  had  a  secret  suspicion  that  the 
"VVoolden  woman  had  heard  the  story  in 
question  oftener  than  had  pleased  her.  She 
was  but  an  ignorant  creature ;  though  she 
had  lived  in  Dulhani  twelve  or  thirteen 
years,  she  was  no  better  than  when  she 
came.  The  mistake  was  in  treating  sister 
Harriet  as  if  she  were  on  a  level  with  the 
rest  of  the  company.  Miss  Lucinda  had  ob- 
served more  than  once,  lately,  that  her  sister 
sometimes  repeated  herself,  unconsciously,  a 
little  oftener  than  was  agreeable.  Perhaps 
they  were  getting  a  trifle  dull ;  towards 
spring  it  might  be  well  to  pass  a  few  days 
with  some  of  their  friends,  and  have  a 
change. 

"  If  I  have  tried  to  do  anything,"  said 
Miss  Dobin  in  an  icy  tone,  "  it  has  been  to 
stand  firm  in  my  lot  and  place,  and  to  hold 
the  standard  of  cultivated  mind  and  elegant 
manners  as  high  as  possible.  You  would 
think  it  had  been  a  hundred  years  since  our 
mother's  death,  so  completely  has  the  effect 
of  her  good  breeding  and  exquisite  hospi- 
tality been  lost  sight  of,  here  in  Dulham.  I 


THE  DULBAM  LADIES.  39 

could  wish  that  our  father  had  chosen  to  set- 
tle in  a  larger  and  more  appreciative  place. 
The}7  would  like  to  put  us  on  the  shelf,  too. 
I  can  see  that  plainly." 

"•  I  am  sure  we  have  our  friends,"  said 
Miss  Lucinda  anxiously,  but  with  a  choking 
voice.  "  We  must  not  let  them  think  we  do 
not  mean  to  keep  up  with  the  times,  as  we 
always  have.  I  do  feel  as  if  perhaps  —  our 
hair  "  — 

And  the  sad  secret  was  out  at  last.  Each 
of  the  sisters  drew  a  long  breath  of  relief 
at  this  beginning  of  a  confession. 

It  was  certain  that  they  must  take  some 
steps  to  retrieve  their  lost  ascendency.  Pub- 
lic attention  had  that  evening  been  called  to 
their  fast-disappearing  locks,  poor  ladies; 
and  Miss  Luciuda  felt  the  discomfort  most, 
for  she  had  been  the  inheritor  of  the  High- 
tree  hair,  long  and  curly,  and  chestnut  in 
color.  There  used  to  be  a  waviness  about 
it,  and  sometimes  pretty  escaping  curls,  but 
these  were  gone  long  ago.  Miss  Dobin  re- 
sembled her  father,  and  her  hair  had  not 
been  luxui'iant,  so  that  she  was  less  changed 
by  its  absence  than  one  might  suppose.  The 
straightness  and  thinness  had  increased  so 
gradually  that  neither  sister  had  quite  ac- 


40  THE  DVLIIAM  LADIES. 

cepted  the  thought  that  other  persons  would 
particularly  notice  their  altered  appearance. 

They  had  shrunk,  with  the  reticence  born 
of  close  family  association,  from  speaking  of 
the  cause  even  to  each  other,  when  they 
made  themselves  pretty  little  lace  and  dotted 
muslin  caps.  Breakfast  caps,  they  called 
them,  and  explained  that  these  were  univer- 
sally worn  in  town ;  the  young  Prinn •>>  of 
Wales  originated  them,  or  at  any  rate 
adopted  them.  The  ladies  offered  no  apol- 
ogy for  keeping  the  breakfast  caps  on  until 
bedtime,  and  in  spite  of  them  a  forward 
child  had  just  spoken,  loud  and  shrill,  an 
untimely  question  in  the  ears  of  the  for 
once  silent  sewing  society.  "  Do  Miss  Dob- 
binses  wear  them  great  caps  because  their 
heads  is  cold? "the  little  beast  had  said; 
and  everybody  was  startled  and  dismayed. 

Miss  Dobin  had  never  shown  better  her 
good  breeding  and  valor,  the  younger  sister 
thought. 

"  No,  little  girl,"  replied  the  stately  Har- 
riet, with  a  chilly  smile.  "  I  believe  that 
our  headdresses  are  quite  in  the  fashion  for 
ladies  of  all  ages.  And  you  must  remember 
that  it  is  never  polite  to  make  such  personal 
remarks."  It  was  after  this  that  Miss  Do- 


THE  DULHAM  LADIES.  41 

bin  had  been  reminded  of  Madam  Some- 
body's unusual  headgear  at  the  evening  en- 
tertainment in  Boston.  Nobody  but  the 
Woolden  woman  could  have  interrupted  her 
under  such  trying  circumstances. 

Miss  Lucinda,  however,  was  certain  that 
the  time  had  come  for  making  some  effort 
to  replace  her  lost  adornment.  The  child 
had  told  an  unwelcome  truth,  but  had  paved 
the  way  for  further  action,  and  now  was  the 
time  to  suggest  something  that  had  slowly 
been  taking  shape  in  Miss  Lucinda's  mind. 
A  young  grand-nephew  of  their  mother  and 
his  bride  had  passed  a  few  days  with  them, 
two  or  three  summers  before,  and  the  sisters 
had  been  quite  shocked  to  find  that  the 
pretty  young  woman  wore  a  row  of  frizzes, 
not  originally  her  own,  over  her  smooth, 
forehead.  At  the  time,  Miss  Dobin  and 
Miss  Lucinda  had  spoken  severely  with  each 
other  of  such  bad  taste,  but  now  it  made  a 
great  difference  that  the  wearer  of  the 
frizzes  was  not  only  a  relative  by  marriage 
and  used  to  good  society,  but  also  that  she 
came  from  town,  and  might  be  supposed  to 
know  what  was  proper  in  the  way  of  toilet. 

"  I  really  think,  sister,  that  we  had  better 
see  about  having  some  —  arrangements,  next 


42  THE  DULHAM  LADIES. 

time  we  go  anywhere,"  Miss  Dobin  said 
unexpectedly,  \\ith  a  slight  tremble  in  her 
voice,  just  as  they  reached  their  own  door. 
"  There  seems  to  be  quite  a  fashion  for  them 
nowadays.  For  the  parish's  sake  we  ought 
to  recognize  "  —  and  Miss  Lucinda  re- 
sponded with  instant  satisfaction.  She  did 
not  like  to  complain,  but  she  had  been 
troubled  with  neuralgic  pains  in  her  fore- 
head on  suddenly  meeting  the  cold  air.  The 
sisters  felt  a  new  bond  of  sympathy  in  keep- 
ing this  secret  with  and  for  each  other ;  they 
took  pains  to  say  to  several  acquaintances 
that  they  were  thinking  of  going  to  the  next 
large  town  to  do  a  few  errands  for  Christmas. 

A  bright,  sunny  morning  seemed  to  wish 
the  ladies  good-fortune.  Old  Hetty  Downs, 
their  faithful  maid-servant  and  protector, 
looked  after  them  in  affectionate  forebod 
ing.  "  Dear  sakes,  what  devil's  wiles  may 
be  played  on  them  blessed  innocents  afore 
they  're  safe  home  again !  "  she  murmured, 
as  they  vanished  round  the  corner  of  the 
street  that  led  to  the  railway  station. 

Miss  Dobin  and  Miss  Lucinda  paced  dis- 
creetly side  by  side  down  the  main  street  of 
Westbury.  It  was  nothing  like  Boston,  of 
course,  but  the  noise  was  slightly  confusing, 


THE  DULI1AM  LADIES.  43 

and  the  passers-by  sometimes  roughly  pushed 
against  them.  Westbury  was  a  consequen- 
tial manufacturing  town,  but  a  great  con- 
venience at  times  like  this.  The  trifling 
Christmas  gifts  for  their  old  neighbors  and 
Sunday-school  scholars  were  purchased  and 
stowed  away  in  their  neat  Fayal  basket  be- 
fore the  serious  commission  of  the  day  was 
attended  to.  Here  and  there,  in  the  shops, 
disreputable  frizzes  were  displayed  in  un- 
blushing effrontery,  but  no  such  vulgar 
shopkeeper  merited  the  patronage  of  the 
Misses  Dobin.  They  pretended  not  to  ob- 
serve the  unattractive  goods,  and  went  their 
way  to  a  low,  one-storied  building  on  a  side 
street,  where  an  old  tradesman  lived.  He 
had  been  useful  to  the  minister  while  he  still 
remained  upon  the  earth  and  had  need  of  a 
wig,  sandy  in  hue  and  increasingly  sprinkled 
with  gray,  as  if  it  kept  pace  with  other 
changes  of  existence.  But  old  Paley's  shut- 
ters were  up,  and  a  bar  of  rough  wood  was 
nailed  firmly  across  the  one  that  had  lost  its 
fastening  and  would  rack  its  feeble  hinges 
in  the  wind.  Old  Paley  had  always  been 
polite  and  bland  ;  they  really  had  looked 
forward  to  a  little  chat  with  him ;  they  had 
heard  a  year  or  two  before  of  his  wife's 


44  THE  DULHAM  LADIES. 

death,  and -meant  to  offer  sympathy.  His 
business  of  hair-dressing  had  been  carried 
on  with  that  of  parasol  and  umbrella  mend- 
ing, and  the  condemned  umbrella  which  was 
his  sign  flapped  and  swung  in  the  rising 
wind,  a  tattered  skeleton  before  the  closed 
door.  The  ladies  sighed  and  turned  away  ; 
they  were  beginning  to  feel  tired ;  the  day 
was  long,  and  they  had  not  met  with  any 
pleasures  yet.  "  We  might  walk  up  the 
street  a  little  farther,"  suggested  Miss  Lu- 
cinda ;  "  that  is,  if  you  are  not  tired,"  as 
they  stood  hesitating  on  the  corner  after 
they  had  finished  a  short  discussion  of  Mr. 
Paley's  disappearance.  Happily  it  was  only 
a  few  minutes  before  they  came  to  a  stop 
together  in  front  of  a  new,  shining  shop, 
where  smirking  waxen  heads  all  in  a  row 
were  decked  with  the  latest  fashions  of  wigs 
and  frizzes.  One  smiling  fragment  of  a 
gentleman  stared  so  straight  at  Miss  Lu- 
cinda  with  his  black  eyes  that  she  felt  quite 
coy  and  embarrassed,  and  was  obliged  to 
feign  not  to  be  conscious  of  his  admiration. 
But  Miss  Dobin,  after  a  brief  delay,  boldly 
opened  the  door  and  entered  ;  it  was  better 
to  be  sheltered  in  the  shop  than  exposed  to 
public  remark  as  they  gazed  in  at  the  win- 


THE  DULHAM  LADIES.  45 

dows.  Miss  Lucinda  felt  her  heart  beat  and 
her  courage  give  out ;  she,  coward  like,  left 
the  transaction  of  their  business  to  her  sis- 
ter, and  turned  to  contemplate  the  back  of 
the  handsome  model.  It  was  a  slight  shock 
to  find  that  he  was  not  so  attractive  from 
this  point  of  view.  The  wig  he  wore  was 
well  made  all  round,  but  his  shoulders  were 
roughly  finished  in  a  substance  that  looked 
like  plain  plaster  of  Paris. 

"  What  can  I  have  ze  pleasure  of  showing 
you,  young  ladees?"  asked  a  person  who 
advanced  ;  and  Miss  Lucinda  faced  about 
to  discover  a  smiling,  middle-aged  French- 
man, who  rubbed  his  hands  together  and 
looked  at  his  customers,  first  one  and  then 
the  other,  with  delightful  deference.  He 
seemed  a  very  civil  nice  person,  the  young 
ladies  thought. 

"  My  sister  and  I  were  thinking  of  buy- 
ing some  little  arrangements  to  wear  above 
the  forehead."  Miss  Dobin  explained,  with 
pathetic  dignity ;  but  the  Frenchman  spared 
her  any  further  words.  He  looked  with 
eager  interest  at  the  bonnets,  as  if  no  lack 
had  attracted  his  notice  before.  "  Ah,  yes. 
Je  comprends  ;  ze  high  foreheads  are  not 
now  ze  mode.  Je  prefer  them,  tnoi,  yes, 


46  THE  DULHAM  LADIES. 

yes,  but  ze  ladees  must  accept  ze  fashion ; 
zay  must  now  cover  ze  forehead  with  ze 
frizzes,  ze  bangs,  you  say.  As  you  wis\  as 
you  wis' ! "  and  the  tactful  little  nmn,  with 
many  shrugs  and  merry  gestures  at  such 
girlish  fancies,  pulled  down  one  box  after 
another. 

It  was  a  great  relief  to  find  that  this  was 
no  worse,  to  say  the  least,  than  any  other 
shopping,  though  the  solemnity  and  secrecy 
of  the  occasion  were  infringed  upon  by  the 
great  supply  of  "  arrangements  "  and  the 
loud  discussion  of  the  color  of  some  crimps 
a  noisy  girl  was  buying  from  a  young  sales- 
woman the  other  side  of  the  shop. 

Miss  Dobin  waved  aside  the  wares  which 
were  being  displayed  for  her  approval. 
"  Something  —  more  simple,  if  you  please," 
—  she  did  not  like  to  say  "  older." 

"  But  these  are  tres  simple,'''  protested  the 
Frenchman.  "  We  have  nothing  younger ;  " 
and  Miss  Dobin  and  Miss  Lucinda  blushed, 
and  said  no  more.  The  Frenchman  had  his 
wn  way ;  he  persuaded  them  that  nothing 
was  so  suitable  as  some  conspicuous  fore- 
locks that  matched  their  hair  as  it  used  to 
be.  They  would  have  given  anything  rather 
than  leave  their  breakfast  caps  at  home,  if 


THE  DULHAM  LADIES.  47 

they  had  known  that  their  proper  winter 
bonnets  must  come  off.  They  hardly  lis- 
tened to  the  wig  merchant's  glib  voice  as 
Miss  Dobin  stood  revealed  before  the  mer- 
ciless mirror  at  the  back  of  the  shop. 

He  made  everything  as  easy  as  possible, 
the  friendly  creature,  and  the  ladies  were 
grateful  to  him.  Besides,  now  that  the 
bonnet  was  on  again  there  was  a  great  im- 
provement in  Miss  Dobin's  appearance. 
She  turned  to  Miss  Lucinda,  and  saw  a 
gleam  of  delight  in  her  eager  countenance. 
"  It  really  is  very  becoming.  I  like  the 
way  it  parts  over  your  forehead,"  said  the 
younger  sister,  "  but  if  it  were  long  enough 
to  go  behind  the  ears "  —  "  Non,  non"  en- 
treated the  Frenchman.  "  To  make  her 
the  old  woman  at  once  would  be  cruelty ! " 
And  Lucinda,  who  was  wondering  how  well 
she  would  look  in  her  turn,  succumbed 
promptly  to  such  protestations.  Yes,  there 
was  no  use  in  being  old  before  their  time. 
Dulham  was  not  quite  keeping  pace  with 
the  rest  of  the  world  in  these  days,  but  they 
need  not  drag  behind  everybody  else,  just 
because  they  lived  there. 

The  price  of  the  little  arrangements  was 
much  less  than  the  sisters  expected,  and  the 


48  niK  nr  i.  H  A. \r  LAD  IKS. 

uncomfortable  expense  of  their  reverend  fa- 
ther's \vi^s  had  been,  it  was  proved,  a  tiling 
of  the  past.  Miss  Dobin  treated  her  polite 
Frenchman  with  great  courtesy;  indeed, 
Miss  Lucinda  had  more  than  once  whis- 
pered to  her  to  talk  French,  and  as  they  were 
bowed  out  of  the  shop  the  gracious  Bong- 
sure  of  the  elder  lady  seemed  to  act  like  the 
string  of  a  showerbath,  and  bring  down  an 
awesome  torrent  of  foreign  phrases  upon 
the  two  guileless  heads.  It  was  impossible 
to  reply ;  the  ladies  bowed  again,  however, 
and  Miss  Luciuda  caught  a  last  smile  from 
the  handsome  wax  countenance  in  the  win- 
dow, lie  appeared  to  regard  her  with  fresh 
approval,  and  she  departed  down  the  street 
with  mincing  steps. 

"  I  feel  as  if  anybody  might  look  at  me 
now,  sister,"  said  gentle  Miss  Lucinda. 
"  I  confess,  I  have  really  suffered  some- 
times, since  I  knew  I  looked  so  distressed." 

"  Yours  is  lighter  than  I  thought  it  was 
in  the  shop,"  remarked  Miss  Dobin  doubt- 
full}7,  but  she  quickly  added  that  perhaps 
it  would  change  a  little.  She  was  so  per- 
fectly satisfied  with  her  own  appearance 
that  she  could  not  bear  to  dim  the  pleasure 
of  any  one  else.  The  truth  remained  that 


THE  DULHAM  LADIES.  49 

she  never  would  have  let  Lucinda  choose 
that  particular  arrangement  if  she  had  seen 
it  first  in  a  good  light.  And  Lucinda  was 
thinking  exactly  the  same  of  her  compan- 
ion. 

"  I  am  sure  we  shall  have  no  more  neural- 
gia," said  Miss  Dobin.  "  I  am  sorry  we 
waited  so  long,  dear,"  and  they  tripped 
down  the  main  street  of  Westbury,  confi- 
dent that  nobody  would  suspect  them  of 
being  over  thirty.  Indeed,  they  felt  quite 
girlish,  and  unconsciously  looked  sideways 
as  they  went  along,  to  see  their  satisfying 
reflections  in  the  windows.  The  great 
panes  made  excellent  mirrors,  with  not  too 
clear  or  lasting  pictures  of  these  comforted 
passers-by. 

The  Frenchman  in  the  shop  was  making 
merry  with  his  assistants.  The  two  great 
frisettes  had  long  been  out  of  fashion ;  he 
had  been  lying  in  wait  with  them  for  two 
unsuspecting  country  ladies,  who  could  be 
cajoled  into  such  a  purchase. 

"  Sister,"  Miss  Lucinda  was  saying,  "  you 
know  there  is  still  an  hour  to  wait  before 
our  train  goes.  Suppose  we  take  a  little 
longer  walk  down  the  other  side  of  the 
way ; "  and  they  strolled  slowly  back  again. 


50  THE  DU  1.11  AM  I.A1HE8. 

In  fact,  they  nearly  missed  the  train, 
naughty  girls !  Hetty  would  have  been  so 
worried,  they  assured  each  other,  but  they 
reached  the  station  just  in  time. 

"  Lutie,"  said  Miss  Dobin,  "  put  up  your 
hand  and  part  it  from  your  forehead ;  it 
seems  to  be  getting  a  little  out  of  place ; " 
and  Miss  Lucinda,  who  had  just  got  bivath 
enough  to  speak,  returned  the  information 
that  Miss  Dobin's  was  almost  covering  her 
eyebrows.  They  might  have  to  trim  them 
a  little  shorter ;  of  course  it  could  be  done. 
The  darkness  was  falling ;  they  had  taken 
an  early  dinner  before  they  started,  and 
now  they  were  tired  and  hungry  after  the 
exertion  of  the  afternoon,  but  the  spirit  of 
youth  flamed  afresh  in  their  hearts,  and 
they  were  very  happy.  If  one's  heart  re- 
mains young,  it  is  a  sore  trial  to  have  the 
outward  appearance  entirely  at  vai-iance. 
It  was  the  ladies'  nature  to  be  girlish,  and 
found  it  impossible  not  to  be  grateful 
to  the  flimsy,  ineffectual  disguise  which 
seemed  to  set  them  right  with  the  world. 
The  old  conductor,  who  had  known  them 
for  many  years,  looked  hard  at  them  as  he 
took  their  tickets,  and,  being  a  man  of  hu- 
mor and  compassion,  affected  not  to  notice 


THE  DULHAM  LADIES.  51 

anything  remarkable  in  their  appearance. 
"  You  ladies  never  mean  to  grow  old,  like 
the  rest  of  us,"  he  said  gallantly,  and  the 
sisters  fairly  quaked  with  joy.  Their  young 
hearts  would  forever  keep  them  truly  uncon- 
scious of  the  cruel  thievery  of  time. 

"  Bless  us  !  "  the  obnoxious  Mrs.  Woolden 
was  saying,  at  the  other  end  of  the  car. 
"  There 's  the  old  maid  Dobbinses,  and 
they  've  bought  'em  some  bangs.  I  expect 
they  wanted  to  get  thatched  in  a  little  before 
real  cold  weather ;  but  don't  they  look  just 
like  a  pair  o'  poodle  dogs." 

The  little  ladies  descended  wearily  from 
the  train.  Somehow  they  did  not  enjoy  a 
day's  shopping  as  much  as  they  used.  They 
were  certainly  much  obliged  to  Hetty  for 
sending  her  niece's  boy  to  meet  them,  with  a 
lantern  ;  also  for  having  a  good  warm  supper 
ready  when  they  came  in.  Hetty  took  a 
quick  look  at  her  mistresses,  and  returned  to 
the  kitchen.  "  I  knew  somebody  would  be 
foolin'  of  'em,"  she  assured  herself  angrily, 
but  she  had  to  laiigh.  Their  dear,  kind 
faces  were  wrinkled  and  pale,  and  the  great 
frizzes  had  lost  their  pretty  curliness,  and 
were  hanging  down,  almost  straight  and  very 
ugly,  into  the  ladies'  eyes.  They  could  not 


52  TI1K    hl'l.HAM    LADIES. 

tuck  tlu'in  up  under  their  caps,  as  they  were 
sure  might  be  done. 

Then  came  a  succession  of  rainy  dnvs, 
and  nobody  visited  the  rejuvenated  house- 
hold. The  frisettes  looked  very  bright  chest- 
nut by  the  light  of  day,  and  it  must  be  con- 
fessed that  Miss  Dobin  took  the  scissors  and 
shortened  Miss  Luciiida's  half  an  inch,  and 
Miss  Luciuda  returned  the  compliment  quite 
secretly,  because  each  thought  her  sister's 
forehead  lower  than  her  own.  Their  dear 
gray  eyebrows  were  honestly  displayed,  as  if 
it  were  the  fashion  not  to  have  them  match 
with  wigs.  Hetty  at  last  spoke  out,  and 
begged  her  mistresses,  as  they  sat  at  break- 
fast, to  let  her  take  the  frizzes  back  and 
change  them.  Her  sister's  daughter  worked 
in  that  very  shop,  and,  though  in  the  work- 
room, would  be  able  to  oblige  them,  Hetty 
was  sure. 

But  the  ladies  looked  at  each  other  in 
pleased  assurance,  and  then  turned  together 
to  look  at  Hetty,  who  stood  already  a  little 
apprehensive  near  the  table,  where  she  had 
just  put  down  a  plateful  of  srnokiug  drop- 
cakes.  The  good  creature  really  began  to 
look  old. 

"  They  are  worn  very  much  iu  town,"  said 


THE  DULUAM  LADIES.  53 

Miss  Dobin.  "  We  think  it  was  quite  fortu- 
nate that  the  fashion  came  in  just  as  our  hair 
was  growing  a  trifle  thin.  I  dare  say  we  may 
choose  those  that  are  a  shade  duller  in  color 
when  these  are  a  little  past.  Oh,  we  shall 
not  want  tea  this  evening,  you  remember, 
Hetty.  I  am  glad  there  is  likely  to  be  such 
a  good  night  for  the  sewing  circle."  And 
Miss  Dobin  and  Miss  Lucinda  nodded  and 
smiled. 

"  Oh,  my  sakes  alive !  "  the  troubled  hand- 
maiden groaned.  "  Going  to  the  circle,  be 
they,  to  be  snickered  at !  Well,  the  Dobbin 
girls  they  was  born,  and  the  Dobbin  girls 
they  will  remain  till  they  die ;  but  if  they 
ain't  innocent  Christian  babes  to  those  that 
knows  'em  well,  mark  me  down  for  an  irljit 
myself !  They  believe  them  front-pieces  has 
set  the  clock  back  forty  year  or  more,  but  if 
they  're  pleased  to  think  so,  let  'em  !  " 

Away  paced  the  Dulham  ladies,  late  in 
the  afternoon,  to  grace  the  parish  occasion, 
and  face  the  amused  scrutiny  of  their  neigh- 
bors. "  I  think  we  owe  it  to  society  to  ob- 
serve the  fashions  of  the  day,"  said  Miss 
Lucinda.  "  A  lady  cannot  afford  to  be  un- 
attractive. I  feel  now  as  if  we  were  pre- 
pared for  anything  J " 


AN  ONLY  SON. 


IT  was  growing  more  and  more  uncomfort- 
able in  the  room  where  Deacon  Price  had 
spent  the  greater  part  of  a  hot  July  morning. 
The  sun  did  not  shine  in,  for  it  was  now  di- 
rectly overhead,  but  the  glare  of  its  reflection 
from  the  dusty  village  street  and  the  white 
house  opposite  was  blinding  to  the  eyes.  At 
least  one  of  the  three  selectmen  of  Dalton, 
who  were  assembled  in  solemn  conclave, 
looked  up  several  times  at  the  tops  of  the 
windows,  and  thought  they  had  better  see 
about  getting  some  curtains. 

There  was  more  business  than  usual,  but 
most  of  it  belonged  to  the  familiar  detail  of 
the  office ;  there  were  bills  to  pay  for  the 
support  of  the  town's-poor  and  the  district 
schools,  and,  afterward,  some  discussion  arose 
about  a  new  piece  of  road  which  had  been 
projected  by  a  few  citizens,  who  were  as  vio- 
lently opposed  by  others.  The  selectmen 
were  agreed  upon  this  question,  but  they 


AN  ONLY  SON.  55 

proposed  to  speak  in  private  with  the  county 
commissioners,  who  were  expected  to  view 
the  region  of  the  new  highway  the  next 
week.  This,  however,  had  been  well  can- 
vassed at  their  last  meeting,  and  they  had 
reached  no  new  conclusions  since ;  so  pres- 
ently the  conversation  flagged  a  little,  and 
Deacon  Price  drummed  upon  the  ink-spat- 
tered table  with  his  long,  brown  fingers,  and 
John  Kendall,  the  grist-miller,  rose  impa- 
tiently and  went  to  the  small  window,  where 
he  stood  with  blinking  eyes  looking  down 
into  the  street.  His  well-rounded  figure 
made  a  pleasant  shadow  in  that  part  of  the 
room,  but  it  seemed  to  grow  hotter  every 
moment.  Captain  Abel  Stone  left  his  chair 
impatiently,  and  taking  his  hat  went  down 
the  short  flight  of  stairs  that  led  to  the 
street,  knocking  his  thick,  shuffling  boots 
clumsily  by  the  way.  He  reached  the  side- 
walk and  looked  up  and  down  the  street, 
but  nobody  was  coming ;  so  he  turned  to 
Asa  Ball,  the  shoemaker,  who  was  standing 
in  his  shop-door. 

"  Business  ain't  brisk,  I  take  it  ? "  in- 
quired the  captain;  and  Mr.  Ball  replied 
that  he  didn't  do  much  more  than  tend 
shop,  nowadays.  Folks  would  keep  on 


56  AN  ONLY  SON. 

buying  cheap  shoes,  and  thinking  they 
saved  more  money  on  two  pair  a  year  for 
five  dollars  than  when  he  used  to  make  'em 
one  pair  for  four.  "  But  I  make  bettt-i  pay 
than  I  used  to  working  at  my  trade,  and  so 
I  ain't  going  to  fret,"  said  Asa  shrewdly, 
with  a  significant  glance  at  a  modest  pile  of 
empty  cloth-boot  boxes ;  and  the  captain 
laughed  a  little,  and  took  a  nibble  at  a  piece 
of  tobacco  which  he  had  found  with  much 
difficulty  in  one  of  his  deep  coat  pockets. 
He  had  followed  the  sea  in  his  early  life, 
but  had  returned  to  the  small,  stony  farm 
which  had  been  the  home  of  his  childhood, 
perhaps  fifteen  years  before  this  story  be- 
gins. He  had  taken  as  kindly  to  inland 
life  as  if  he  had  never  once  been  spattered 
with  sea  water,  and  had  been  instantly 
given  the  position  in  town  affairs  which 
his  wealth  and  character  merited.  He  still 
retained  a  good  deal  of  his  nautical  way  of 
looking  at  things.  One  would  say  that  to 
judge  by  his  appearance  he  had  been  well 
rubbed  with  tar  and  salt,  and  it  was  sup- 
posed by  his  neighbors  that  his  old  sea- 
chests  were  guardians  of  much  money  ;  he 
was  overrated  by  some  of  them  as  being 
worth  fifteen  thousand  dollars  with  the  farm 


AN  ONLY  SON.  57 

thrown  in.  The  captain  was  considered 
very  peculiar,  because  he  liked  to  live  in 
the  somewhat  dilapidated  little  farmhouse, 
and  some  of  his  attempts  at  cultivating 
the  sterile  soil  were  the  occasion  of  much 
amusement.  He  had  made  a  large  scrap- 
book,  during  his  long  sea-voyages,  of  all 
sorts  of  hints  and  suggestions  for  the  til- 
lage of  the  ground,  gleaned  from  books 
and  newspapers  and  almanacs,  and  nobody 
knows  where  else.  He  had  pasted  these 
in,  or  copied  them  in  his  stiff,  careful  hand- 
writing, and  pleased  himself  by  watching 
his  collection  grow  while  he  was  looking  for- 
ward through  the  long,  storm-tossed  years 
to  his  quiet  anchorage  among  the  Dalton 
hills.  He  was  a  single  man,  and  though 
a  braver  never  trod  the  quarter-deck,  from 
motives  of  wisest  policy  he  seldom  opposed 
his  will  to  that  of  Widow  Martha  Hawkes, 
who  had  consented  to  do  him  the  great  favor 
of  keeping  his  house. 

"  Havin'  a  long  session  to-day,  seems  to 
me,"  observed  the  shoemaker,  with  little 
appearance  of  the  curiosity  which  he  really 
felt. 

"  There  was  a  good  many  p'ints  to  be 
looked  over,"  answered  Captain  Stone,  be- 


68  AN  ONLY  SON. 

coming  aware  that  he  had  secrets  to  guard, 
and  looking  impenetrable  and  unconcerned. 
"It's  worked  into  a  long  drought,  just  as 
I  said  —  I  never  took  note  of  a  drier  sky  ; 
don't  seem  now  as  if  we  ever  should  get  a 
sprinkle  out  of  it,  but  I  suppose  we  shall ;  " 
ami  he  turned  with  a  sigh  to  the  door,  and 
disappeared  again  up  the  narrow  stairway. 
The  three  horses  which  were  tied  to  adja- 
cent posts  in  the  full  blaze  of  the  sun  all 
hung  their  ancient  heads  wearily,  and  sol- 
aced their  disappointment  as  best  they 
might.  They  had  felt  certain,  when  the 
captain  appeared,  that  the  selectmen's 
meeting  was  over.  If  they  had  been  bet- 
ter acquainted  with  politics  they  might  have 
wished  that  there  could  be  a  rising  of  the 
opposition,  so  that  their  masters  would  go 
out  of  office  for  as  many  years  as  they  had 
come  in. 

The  captain's  companions  looked  up  at 
him  eagerly,  as  if  they  were  sure  that  he 
was  the  herald  of  the  expected  tax-collector, 
who  was  to  pay  a  large  sum  of  money  to 
them,  of  which  the  town  treasury  was  in 
need.  It  was  close  upon  twelve  o'clock, 
and  only  a  very  great  emergency  would 
detain  them  beyond  that  time.  They  were 


AN  ONLY  SON.  59 

growing  very  hungry,  and  when  the  cap- 
tain, after  a  grave  shake  of  his  head,  had 
settled  into  his  chair  again,  they  all  felt 
more  or  less  revengeful,  though  Deacoii 
Price  showed  it  by  looking  sad.  One 
would  have  thought  that  he  was  waiting 
with  reluctance  to  see  some  punishment 
descend  upon  the  head  of  the  delaying  offi- 
cial. 

"  Well,  Mis'  Hawkes  will  be  waiting  din- 
ner for  me,  and  she  never  likes  that,"  said 
Captain  Stone  at  last ;  and  just  at  that  min- 
ute was  heard  the  sound  of  wheels. 

"  Perhaps  it 's  my  mare  stepping  about, 
—  she's  dreadful  restive  in  fly-time,"  sug- 
gested Mr.  Kendall,  and  at  once  put  his 
head  out  of  the  window ;  but  when  he  took 
it  in  again,  it  was  to  tell  his  fellow-officers 
that  Jackson  was  coming,  and  then  they  all 
sat  solemnly  in  their  chairs,  with  as  much 
dignity  as  the  situation  of  things  allowed. 
Their  judicial  and  governmental  authority 
was  plainly  depicted  in  their  expression. 
On  ordinary  occasions  they  were  not  re- 
markable, except  as  excellent  old-fashioned 
countrymen ;  but  when  they  represented  to 
the  world  the  personality  and  character  of 
the  town  of  Dalton,  they  would  not  have 


60  AN   ONLY  SON. 

looked  out  of  place  seated  in  that  stately 
company  which  Carpaccio  has  painted  in 
the  .Reception  of  the  English  Embassadors. 
It  was  Dalton  that  gave  audience  that  sum- 
mer day,  in  the  dusty,  bare  room,  as  Venice 
listens  soberly  in  the  picture. 

They  heard  a  man  speak  to  his  horse  and 
leap  to  the  ground  heavily,  and  then  listened 
eagerly  to  the  clicks  and  fumblings  which 
represented  the  tying  of  the  halter,  and  then 
there  were  sounds  of  steps  upon  the  stair- 
way. The  voice  of  Mr.  Ball  was  heard,  but 
it  did  not  seem  to  have  attracted  much  atten- 
tion, and  presently  the  long-waited-for  mes- 
senger was  in  the  room,  lie  was  dusty  and 
sunburnt,  and  looked  good-naturedly  at  his 
hosts.  They  greeted  him  amiably  enough, 
and  after  he  put  his  worn  red  handker- 
chief away  he  took  a  leather  wallet  from  his 
pocket,  and  looking  at  a  little  roll  of  bills 
almost  reluctantly  turned  them  over  with 
lingering  fingers  and  passed  them  to  Mr. 
Kendall,  who  sat  nearest  him,  saying  that 
he  believed  it  was  just  right. 

There  was  little  else  said,  and  after  the 
money  had  again  been  counted  the  meet- 
ing was  over.  There  was  indeed  a  hur- 
ried arrangement  as  to  who  should  guard 


AN  ONLY  S0\.  (Jl 

the  treasury,  but  when  Deacon  Price  ac- 
knowledged that  he  meant  to  go  to  South 
Dalton  next  morning,  he  was  at  once  de- 
puted to  cany  the  remittance  to  the  bank 
there,  where  the  town's  funds  and  many  of 
its  papers  already  reposed.  The  deacon 
said  slowly  that  he  did  n't  know  as  he  cared 
about  keeping  so  much  money  in  the  house, 
but  he  was  not  relieved  by  either  of  his 
colleagues,  and  so  these  honest  men  sepa- 
rated and  returned  to  private  life  again. 
Their  homes  were  at  some  distance  from 
each  other ;  but  for  a  half  mile  or  so  Dea- 
con Price  followed  Captain  Stone,  and  a 
cloud  of  dust  followed  them  both.  Then 
the  captain  turned  to  the  left,  up  toward 
the  hills;  but  Deacon  Price  kept  on  for 
some  distance  through  the  level  lands,  and 
at  last  went  down  a  long  lane,  unshaded  ex- 
cept here  and  there  where  some  ambitious 
fence  stakes  had  succeeded  in  changing 
themselves  into  slender  willow-trees.  In 
the  spring  the  sides  of  the  lane  had  been 
wet,  and  were  full  of  green  things,  growing 
as  fast  as  they  could ;  but  now  these  had 
been  for  some  time  dried  up.  The  lane 
was  bordered  with  dusty  mayweed,  and 
three  deep  furrows  were  worn  through  the 


62  AN  ONLY  BON. 

turf,  where  the  wagon  wheels  and  the 
horse's  patient  feet  had  traveled  back  and 
forward  so  many  years.  The  house  stood 
at  the  end,  looking  toward  the  main  road 
as  if  it  wished  it  were  there ;  it  was  a  low- 
storied  white  house,  with  faded  green 
blinds. 

The  deacon  had  tried  to  hurry  his  slow 
horse  still  more  after  he  caught  sight  of  an- 
other horse  and  wagon  standing  in  the  wide 
dooryard.  He  had  entirely  forgotten,  until 
that  moment,  that  his  niece  and  housekeeper, 
Eliza  Storrow,  had  made  a  final  announce- 
ment in  the  morning  that  she  was  going  to 
start  early  that  afternoon  for  the  next  town 
to  help  celebrate  a  golden  wedding.  Poor 
Eliza  had  been  somewhat  irate  because  even 
this  uncommon  season  of  high  festival  failed 
to  excite  her  uncle's  love  for  society.  She 
made  him  run  the  gauntlet,  as  usual  on 
such  occasions,  by  telling  him  successively 
that  he  took  no  interest  in  nobody  and  noth- 
ing, and  that  she  was  sure  she  should  n't 
know  what  to  say  when  people  asked  where 
he  was  ;  that  it  looked  real  unfeeling  and 
cold-hearted,  and  he  couldn't  expect  folks 
to  show  any  interest  in  him.  These  argu- 
ments, with  many  others,  had  been  brought 


AN   ONLY  SON.  63 

forward  on  previous  occasions  until  the  dea- 
con knew  them  all  by  heart,  and  he  listened 
to  them  impassively  that  morning,  only  ob- 
serving cautiously  to  his  son  that  Eliza 
must  go  through  with  just  so  much.  But 
he  promised  to  come  back  early  from  the 
village,  since  Eliza  and  the  cousin  who  was 
to  call  for  her  meant  to  start  soon  after 
twelve.  It  was  a  long  drive,  and  they 
wished  to  be  in  good  season  for  the  gath- 
ering of  the  clans. 

He  left  the  horse  standing  in  the  yard 
and  went  into  the  house,  feeling  carefully  at 
his  inner  coat  pocket  as  he  did  so.  Eliza 
had  been  watching  for  him,  but  the  minute 
he  came  in  sight  she  had  left  the  window 
and  begun  to  scurry  about  in  the  pantry. 
The  deacon  did  not  stop  to  speak  to  her,  but 
went  directly  to  his  bedroom,  and  after  a 
moment's  thought  placed  the  precious  wal- 
let deep  under  the  pillows.  This  act  was 
followed  by  another  moment's  reflection,  and 
as  the  old  man  turned,  his  son  stood  before 
him  in  the  doorway.  Neither  spoke ;  there 
was  a  feeling  of  embarrassment  which  was 
not  uncommon  between  them  ;  but  presently 
the  young  man  said,  "  Eliza 's  been  waiting 
for  you  to  have  your  dinner ;  she  's  in  a  great 


64  AN  ONLY  SON. 

hurry  to  get  off.     I  '11  be  in  just  as  quick  as 
I  take  care  of  the  horse." 

"  You  let  her  be  ;  I  '11  put  her  up  myself," 
said  the  deacon  a  little  ungraciously.  "  I 
guess  Eliza '11  get  there  soon  enough.  I 
should  n't  think  she  'd  want  to  start  to  ride 
way  over  there  right  in  the  middle  of  the 
day."  At  another  time  he  would  have  been 
pleased  with  Warren's  offer  of  aid,  for  that 
young  man's  bent  was  not  in  what  we  are 
pleased  to  call  a  practical  direction.  As 
he  left  the  kitchen  he  noticed  for  the  first 
time  Mrs.  Starbird,  who  sat  by  the  farther 
window  dressed  in  her  best,  and  evidently 
brimming  over  with  reproachful  impatience. 
Deacon  Price  was  a  hospitable  man,  and 
stopped  to  shake  hands  with  her  kindly,  and 
to  explain  that  he  had  been  delayed  by 
some  business  that  had  come  before  the  se- 
lectmen. He  was  politely  assured  that  the 
delay  was  not  of  the  least  consequence,  for 
Mrs.  Starbird  was  going  to  drive  the  colt, 
and  could  make  up  the  lost  time  on  the 
road.  As  they  stood  talking,  Eliza's  foot- 
steps were  heard  behind  them,  and,  without 
turning  or  deigning  to  enter  into  any  con- 
versation with  his  niece,  the  deacon  went  out 
into  the  bright  sunlight  again. 


AN  ONLY  SON.  65 

Warren  had  preceded  him  after  all,  and 
was  unfastening  one  of  the  traces,  and  his 
father  unbuckled  the  other  without  a  word. 
"  You  go  in  and  have  your  dinner,  —  why 
won't  you,  father  ?  "  the  young  man  said, 
looking  up  appealingly.  "  You  need  n't  be 
afraid  but  I  '11  do  this  all  right." 

"  I  declare,  I  was  grieved  when  I  saw,  as 
I  come  up  the  lane,  that  you  had  n't  mended 
up  the  fence  there  where  I  told  you  this 
forenoon.  I  had  to  be  off,  and  there's  the 
two  calves  right  into  the  garden  piece,  and 
I  don't  know  what  works  they  've  been  and 
done.  It  does  seem  too  bad,  Warren." 

The  son  had  worn  a  pleased  and  almost 
triumphant  look,  as  if  he  had  good  news  to 
tell,  but  now  his  face  fell,  and  he  turned 
crimson  with  shame  and  anger.  "  I  would  n't 
have  forgot  that  for  anything !  "  he  stam- 
mered. "  I  've  been  hurrying  as  fast  as 
I  could  with  something  I  've  been  doing. 
I  'm  going  off  "  —  but  his  father  had  already 
stepped  inside  the  barn  door  with  the  hun- 
gry horse,  and  it  was  no  use  to  say  any 
more.  Presently  the  deacon  went  into  the 
house  and  ate  his  dinner,  and  after  the  few 
dishes  had  been  washed,  and  Eliza  had  told 
him  about  the  bread,  and  a  piece  of  cold 


66  AN  ONLY  SON. 

boiled  beef,  and  a  row  of  blueberry  pies,  and 
the  sheet  of  gingerbread,  which  she  had  pro- 
vided for  the  family's  sustenance  in  her  ab- 
sence, she  added  that  she  might  not  be  back 
until  early  Wednesday  morning,  and  then 
she  drove  away  in  triumph  with  cousin  Star- 
bird.  It  was  the  first  holiday  the  good  wo- 
man had  had  for  more  than  a  year,  except 
for  church  -  going,  and  the  deacon  wished 
her  good-day  with  real  affection  and  sym- 
pathy, having  already  asked  if  she  had  every- 
thing she  wanted  to  carry  over,  and  finally 
desiring  his  respects  to  be  given  to  the 
folks.  He  stood  at  the  corner  of  the  house 
and  watched  her  all  the  way  down  the  lane 
until  she  turned  into  the  main  road,  and 
Eliza  herself  was  much  pleased  as  she  caught 
sight  of  him.  She  waved  her  hand  gal- 
lantly, to  which  he  responded  by  an  almost 
imperceptible  inclination  of  the  head  and  at 
once  turned  away. 

"  There  ain't  a  better  man  alive,"  said 
cousin  Starbird,  whipping  the  elderly  colt ; 
"  he 's  as  set  as  anybody  I  ever  see,  in  his 
own  ways,  but  he 's  real  good-hearted.  I 
don't  know  anybody  I  'd  look  to  quicker 
than  him  if  I  got  into  misfortune.  He  's 
aged  a  good  deal  this  last  year,  don't  you 


AN  ONLY  SON.  67 

think  he  has,  'Liza  ?  Sometimes  I  feel  sure 
that  Warren's  odd  notions  wears  on  him 
more  than  we  think." 

"Course  they  do,"  said  Eliza,  throwing 
back  the  shawl  which  she  had  felt  obliged 
to  put  on  at  first,  out  of  respect  to  the  oc- 
casion. "  His  father 's  mindful  of  Warren 
every  hour  in  the  day.  He  is  getting  more 
and  more  helpless  and  forgitful,  and  uncle 's 
growing  feeble,  and  he  ain't  able  either  to 
hire  help  or  to  do  the  farm  work  himself. 
Sometimes  Warren  takes  holt  real  good,  but 
it  ain't  often ;  and  there  he  sets,  up  in  that 
room  he  's  fixed  over  the  wood-house,  and 
tinkers  all  day  long.  Last  winter  he  used 
to  be  there  till  late  at  night ;  he  took  out 
one  o'  the  window  panes  and  set  a  funnel 
<3ut  through,  and  used  to  keep  a  fire  going 
and  a  bright  light  up  there  till  one  or  two 
o'clock  in  the  morning.  His  father  never 
slept  a  wink,  I  don't  believe.  He  looks  like 
a  man  tjiat  's  hard  on  to  eighty,  and  he  wa'n't 
but  sixty-seven  his  last  birthday.  I  guess 
Warren  's  teased  him  out  of  about  all  the 
bank  money  he  had  put  away.  There !  I 
used  to  get  interested  myself  in  Warren's 
notions  about  his  machines,  but  now  I  can't 
bear  to  hear  him  begin,  and  I  go  right  into 


68  AN  ONLY  80\. 

the  pantry  and  rattle  round  as  if  I  was  drove 
to  pieces." 

"  I  suppose  his  father  has  indulged  him 
more,  seeing  that  he  was  so  much  younger 
than  all  the  rest  of  his  children,  and  they 
being  dead  anyway.  I  declare,  I  never  see 
such  a  beautiful  creatur'  as  Warren's  mother 
was.  I  always  thought  she  was  kind  of 
homesick  here ;  't  was  a  lonesome  place  to 
me,  always,  and  I  never  counted  on  its  being 
healthy.  The  deacon  's  begun  to  look  kind 
o'  mossy,  and  I  don't  think  it 's  all  worry  o' 
mind.  It's  kind  of  low  land,  and  has  al- 
ways been  called  fevery."  Cousin  Starbird 
was  apt  to  look  on  the  dark  side  of  things. 
"  You  can't  always  see  the  marks  o'  trouble," 
she  went  on.  "  There  was  old  John  Stacy, 
that  lost  three  children  in  one  day  with  scar- 
let fever  the  fall  after  his  wife  died  ;  then 
his  house  got  afire,  and  the  bank  failed  wln-rc 
his  property  was.  Job  himself  could  n't  be 
no  worse  off;  and  he  took  on  dreadful,  as 
one  thing  after  another  came  upon  him,  but 
there  wa'n't  a  younger  appearing  man  of  his 
age  anywhere  at  the  time  he  died.  He 
seemed  to  spring  right  up  again,  like  a  bent 
withe.  I  always  thought  it  was  a  kind  of  a 
pity  that  the  deacon  did  n't  push  Warren 


AN  ONLY  SON.  69 

right  off  while  he  was  young.  He  kept  him 
to  home  trying  to  make  a  farm-boy  of  him 
till  he  was  a  grown  man." 

"  Warren  used  to  beseech  him  dreadfully 
to  let  him  go  off,  when  I  first  come  over  to 
live,"  said  Eliza  Storrow.  "  He  had  a  great 
notion  of  working  in  some  kind  of  a  ma- 
chine shop,  and  they  said  that  there  wa'n't 
so  smart  a  workman  there  as  he  was ;  but 
he  got  a  notion  that  he  could  improve  on 
one  of  the  machines,  and  lost  all  his  interest 
in  workin'  his  trade,  and  the  end  of  it  was 
that  he  spent  a  sight  o'  money  to  get  a 
patent,  and  found  somebody  had  stepped  in 
with  another  just  the  week  before.  It  was 
an  awful  mean  thing,  too,  for  some  thought 
it  was  his  notion  that  had  been  stole  from 
him.  There  was  a  fellow  that  boarded  where 
he  did,  to  Lowell,  that  left  all  of  a  sudden, 
and  they  thought  he  took  the  plan,  —  War- 
ren being  always  free  and  pleasant  with  him, 
—  and  then  let  somebody  else  have  part  of 
it  to  get  the  patent  through  ;  anyway  it 
was  n't  called  for  in  any  name  they  knew. 
Warren  was  dreadful  discouraged  about  it, 
and  was  set  against  folks  knowing,  so  don't 
you  never  say  nothing  that  I  said  about  it. 
I  think  he 's  kind  of  crazed  about  machin- 


70  AN  ONLY  BON. 

ery,  and  I  don't  believe  he  knows  what  he  's 
about  more  than  half  the  time.  He  never 
give  me  a  misbeholden  word,  I  '11  say  that 
for  him,  but  it 's  getting  to  be  a  melancholy 
habitation  if  ever  I  see  one,"  said  Eliza 
mournfully  ;  and  after  this  the  conversation 
turned  to  more  hopeful  themes  relating  to 
the  golden  wedding. 

The  deacon  had  sighed  as  he  turned  away. 
He  wondered  if  they  would  make  the  twelve- 
mile  journey  in  safety,  and  smiled  in  spite 
of  himself  as  he  remembered  an  old  story. 
He  wished  he  had  reminded  them  of  those 
two  old  women  who  were  traveling  from 
Dalton  to  Somerset,  and  forgot  where  they 
came  from,  and  what  their  names  were,  and 
where  they  were  going.  After  this  hidden 
spring  of  humor  had  bubbled  to  the  sur- 
face, a  little  too  late  for  anybody's  enjoy- 
ment but  his  own,  he  relapsed  into  his  usual 
plaintive  gravity,  and,  bringing  a  hammer 
and  nails  and  some  stakes  from  the  wood- 
house,  he  went  out  to  mend  the  broken  fence. 
It  had  been  so  often  patched  and  propped 
that  it  now  seemed  hardly  to  be  repaired 
again.  The  boards  and  posts  had  rotted 
away,  and  the  gamesome  calves  had  forced 
a  wide  breach  in  so  weak  a  wall.  It  was  a 


AN  ONLY  SON.  71 

half  afternoon's  work,  and  the  day  was  hot, 
but  the  tired  old  man  set  about  it  unflinch- 
ingly, and  took  no  rest  until  he  had  given 
the  topmost  rail  a  shake  and  assured  him, 
self  that  it  would  last  through  his  day.  He 
had  brought  luore  tools  and  pieces  of  board, 
and  he  put  these  together  to  be  replaced. 
Just  as  he  bej^an  his  work  he  caught  sight 
of  his  son  walking  quickly  away,  far  beyond 
the  house,  across  the  pastures.  The  deacon 
gave  a  heavy  sigh,  and  as  he  hammered  and 
sawed  and  built  his  fence  again,  there  had 
been  more  than  one  sigh  to  follow  it,  for  was 

not  this  only  f.on  more  strange  and  helpless  ^ 

and  useless  than  ever?  There  seemed  little 
to  look  forward  to  in  life. 

The  garden  was  being  sadly  treated  and 
hindered  by  the  drought :  the  beets  and  on- 
ions were  only  half  grown,  and  the  reliable 
old  herb-bed  seemed  to  have  given  up  the 
fight  altogether.  In  one  place  there  had 
once  been  a  flower-bed  which  belonged  to 
Warren's  mother,  but  it  was  almost  wholly 
covered  with  grass.  Eliza  had  no  fondness 
for  flowers,  and  the  two  men  usually  were 
unconscious  that  there  were  such  things  in 
the  world.  But  this  afternoon  the  deacon 


72  AN   ONLY  SON. 

was  glad  to  see  a  solitary  sprig  of  London 
Pride,  which  stood  out  in  bold  relief  against 
the  gray  post  by  the  little  garden  gate.  It 
sent  a  bright  ray  of  encouragement  into  the 
shadow  of  his  thoughts,  and  he  went  on  his 
way  cheerfully.  He  told  himnelf  that  next 
he  would  attend  to  the  wagon  wheels,  be- 
cause he  should  need  to  start  early  in  the 
morning,  in  order  to  get  home  before  the 
heat  of  the  day  ;  it  was  a  hot  piece  of  road 
from  here  to  the  south  village.  He  won- 
dered idly  where  Warren  had  gone  ;  he  was 
glad  he  had  not  asked  for  money  that  day, 
but  he  had  done  questioning  his  son  about 
his  plans,  or  even  the  reason  of  his  occa- 
sional absences. 

The  side  door,  which  led  into  the  kitchen, 
was  shaded  now,  and  a  westerly  breeze  was 
coming  across  the  level  fields^  so  the  deacon 
sat  down  on  the  doorstep  to  rest.  The 
old  cat  came  out  as  if  she  wished  for  com- 
pany, and  rubbed  against  his  arm  and  mewed 
without  making  any  noticeable  sound.  She 
put  her  fore-feet  on  the  old  man's  knee 
and  looked  eagerly  in  his  face  and  mewed 
again  inaudibly,  and  her  master  laughed  and 
wondered  what  she  wanted.  4i  I  suppose  the 
cellar  door  is  locked  and  bolted,  and  you 


AN   ONLY  SON.  73 

wanfc  to  go  down,"  said  the  deacon,  "  that 's 
it,  ain't  it?  I  should  ha'  thought  'Liza 
would  have  rec'lected  about  them  kittens, 
should  n't  you  ?  "  and  pleasing  himself  with 
the  creature's  companionship,  he  rose  and 
entered  the  house.  The  cat  trotted  along- 
side and  disappeared  quickly  down  the  stair- 
way, and,  moved  by  some  strange  impulse, 
Deacon  Price  went  into  his  bedroom  to  make 
sure  that  the  wallet  was  safe  under  the  pil- 
low. He  did  not  reach  it  at  first,  and  he 
groped  again,  thinking  that  he  had  forgotten 
he  pushed  it  so  far  under.  But  although  he 
eagerly  threw  off  the  clothes  and  the  pillows, 
and  shook  them  twice  over,  and  got  down  on 
his  hands  and  knees  and  crept  under  the 
bed,  and  felt  an  odd  singing  noise  grow 
louder  and  louder  in  his  head,  and  at  last 
became  dizzy  and  dropped  into  the  nearest 
chair,  there  was  no  wallet  to  be  found. 

Then  he  crept  out  into  the  empty  kitchen, 
where  the  only  sound  was  made  by  a  fly 
that  buzzed  dismally  in  a  spider's  web.  The 
air  was  close  and  hot  in  the  house,  and 
as  the  old  man  stood  in  the  doorway  it 
seemed  as  if  there  had  some  change  come 
over  his  whole  familiar  world.  He  felt  puz- 
zled and  weak,  and  at  first  started  to  go  out 


74  AN  ONLY  SON. 

to  the  wagon  with  the  vain  hope  of  finding 
the  lost  purse  ;  it  might  be  that  he  —  But 
there  was  no  use  in  imagining  that  he  had 
done  anything  but  put  it  carefully  under  the 
pillow,  that  his  son  had  stood  in  the  door- 
way as  he  lifted  his  head,  and  that  the 
money  was  gone.  It  was  no  use  to  deceive 
himself,  or  to  hunt  through  the  house  ;  he 
had  always  before  his  eyes  the  picture  of  the 
pasture  slope  with  the  well-known  figure  of 
his  son  following  the  path  that  led  across  it 
to  the  nearest  railroad  station,  a  mile  or  two 
away. 

The  daylight  waned  slowly,  and  the  heat 
^  of  the  sun  lingered  late  into  the  night.  Poor 
John  Price  went  through  with  his  usual  du- 
ties mechanically,  but  with  perfect  can-,  and 
made  the  doing  of  his  work  last  as  long 
as  he  could.  The  pig  and  the  chickens  and 
the  horse  were  fed  ;  then  there  were  the 
cows  to  bring  in  from  pasture  and  to  be 
milked  ;  and  at  last  the  poor  man  even  re- 
membered the  cat,  and  gave  her  a  saucer  of 
milk  for  her  supper  ;  but  still  it  would  not 
grow  dark,  and  still  the  shame  and  sorrow 
weighed  him  down.  In  his  restlessness  he 
went  through  the  lower  rooms  of  the  house, 
and  opened  the  front  door  and  shut  it  again, 


AN   ONL  Y  SON.  75 

and  looked  into  the  stiff  little  best  room,  and 
felt  as  if  he  were  following  the  country  cus- 
tom, so  familiar  to  him,  of  watching  with  the 
dead. 

He  did  not  get  much  sleep  that  night,  in 
the  uncomfortable  bed  which  he  tried  to  put 
into  some  sort  of  order  before  he  lay  down. 
Once  he  prayed  aloud  that  the  Lord  would 
vouchsafe  him  a  miracle,  and  that  he  might 
find  his  trust  again,  and  what  was  still  more 
precious,  his  confidence  in  his  only  son.  For 
some  reason  he  could  not  bear  the  sound  of 
his  own  voice  ;  and  the  thought  of  his  time- 
honored  office  in  the  church  pained  him,  for 
was  it  not  disgraced  and  made  a  reproach  ? 

Little  by  little  the  first  sharpness  of  the 
shock  wore  away,  while  he  tried  to  think 
what  was  to  be  done.  The  thought  seized 
him  that  his  son  might  have  left  some  ex- 
planation of  his  going  away,  and  he  rose 
and  took  a  candle  and  went  to  the  little 
work-shop.  There  was  less  than  the  usual 
litter  of  cog-wheels  and  springs  and  screws, 
but  somehow  in  the  hot  little  room  a  feeling 
of  reassurance  and  almost  of  hope  took  pos- 
session of  him.  It  might  be  that  Warren's 
hopes  would  not  be  disappointed,  that  he 
might  be  able  to  repay  the  stolen  sum,  that 


76  AN   ONLY  SON. 

he  had  only  secreted  it,  and  would  return 
later  and  give  it  back  ;  for  the  poor  deacon 
assured  himself  over  and  over  that  he  would 
talk  about  the  boy's  affairs  with  him,  and 
try  again  to  aid  him  and  to  put  him  into  a 
likely  way  at  last,  even  if  he  had  to  mort- 
gage the  farm. 

But  in  the  morning,  if  there  were  still  no 
signs  of  the  lad,  what  could  be  done  ?  The 
money  which  Jerry  Jackson  had  owed  the 
town  as  tax-collector,  and  paid  at  last  that 
very  day,  —  that  seven  hundred  dollars  ;  the 
five  hundred  dollar  bill,  and  the  two  that 
stood  for  a  hundred  each,  and  some  smaller 
bills  which  were  to  pay  the  interest,  —  how 
should  they  be  replaced?  He  had  no  ready 
money  of  any  amount,  nor  would  have  until 
the  pay  came  for  some  hay,  or  unless  he 
could  persuade  a  neighbor,  whose  payments 
were  honest  but  slow,  to  take  up  a  note  given 
for  a  piece  of  outlying  woodland  sold  the 
winter  before. 

All  through  that  long  summer  night  he 
worried  and  waited  for  the  morning,  and 
sometimes  told  himself  that  his  only  son  had 
robbed  him,  and  sometimes  said  that  War- 
ren would  never  serve  him  like  that,  and 
when  he  came  home  it  would  be  all  made 


AN  ONLY  SON.  77 

right.  The  whippoorwills  were  singing  about 
the  house,  and  one  even  came  to  perch  on 
the  kitchen  doorstep  and  repeat  its  accusing 
cr£.  The  waning  moon  rose  late,  and  made 
a  solemn  red  light  in  the  east,  and  shone 
straight  in  at  the  little  bedroom  window  as 
if  it  were  a  distant  bale-fire  on  the  hills.  A 
little  dog  kept  up  a  fierce  barking  by  the 
next  farmhouse,  far  away  across  the  fields, 
and  at  last  the  tired  man  was  ready  to  think 
his  miserable  wakefulness  was  the  fault  of 
the  cur.  .  .  .  Yes,  he  had  given  Warren  all 
the  money  he  could,  he  had  meant  well  by 
the  boy,  and  surely  now,  unless  the  poor  fel- 
low had  gone  mad,  there  would  be  some  way 
out  of  all  this  trouble  ;  at  any  rate,  he  would 
not  let  other  people  have  a  chance  to  call 
his  son  a  thief  until  there  was  no  help  for  it. 
The  next  morning,  after  a  short,  uneasy 
sleep,  from  which  the  deacon  had  a  sad 
awaking,  he  hungrily  ate  some  breakfast  at 
the  pantry  shelves,  and  harnessed  the  old 
horse,  and  set  out  on  a  day's  journey  of 
which  he  hardly  knew  the  end.  He  shut 
the  door  of  the  house  and  locked  it,  and 
gave  a  look  of  lingering  affection  at  the  old 
place,  even  stopping  the  horse  for  a  minute 
in  the  lane  that  he  might  turn  to  survey  it 


78  AN  ONLY  BON. 

again  most  carefully.  He  felt  as  if  he  were 
going  to  do  it  wrong,  and  as  if  it  were  a  con- 
scious thing,  the  old  weather-beaten  dwelling 
that  had  sheltered  him  all  his  life,  and  those 
who  had  been  dearest  to  him.  It  had  no 
great  attractions  for  a  stranger.  It  was  a 
representative  house  for  that  somewhat  prim- 
itive farming  region,  though  it  had  fallen 
out  of  repair,  and  wore  a  damaged  and  re- 
sourceless  aspect.  The  appearance  of  a 
man's  home  is  exactly  characteristic  of  him- 
\s  self.  Human  nature  is  more  powerful  than 
its  surroundings,  and  shapes  them  inevitably 
to  itself. 

It  was  still  very  early  in  the  morning,  and 
few  persons  were  stirring.  In  fact,  Deacon 
Price  met  nobody  on  the  road  except  a 
sleepy  boy  following  his  cows  to  pasture, 
and  he  did  not  feel  like  looking  him  in  the 
face,  but  gave  a  pull  at  the  reins  to  hurry 
the  horse  and  pass  by  without  question. 
He  took  a  cross  road  that  was  cool  and 
shady  at  that  hour,  and  while  he  journeyed 
slowly  up  the  rough  by-way  he  let  the  horse 
choose  its  own  course  without  guidance. 
Some  birds  were  crying  and  calling  in  the 
woods  close  by,  as  if  it  were  altogether  a 
day  of  ill  omen  and  disaster.  John  Price 


AN  ONLY  SON.  79 

felt  more  and  more  as  if  his  world  was  com- 
ing to  an  end,  and  everything  was  going  to 
pieces.  He  never  had  understood  his  son 
very  well ;  there  are  some  people  who  are 
like  the  moon,  with  one  side  always  hidden 
and  turned  away,  and  Warren  was  only  half 
familiar  to  his  father.  The  old  man  had 
been  at  first  inclined  to  treat  his  bright  boy 
with  a  sort  of  respect  and  reverence,  but  in 
later  years  this  had  changed  little  by  little 
to  impatience  and  suspicion.  It  had  been  a 
great  mortification  that  he  had  been  obliged 
to  maintain  him,  and  once  when  somebody, 
perhaps  Eliza  Storrow,  had  been  comment- 
ing upon  a  certain  crop  of  wild  oats  which 
a  neighboring  lad  had  arranged  for  his  har- 
vesting, the  deacon  was  heard  to  mutter, 
"  Better  them  than  no  crop  at  all !  "  Yet  he 
had  never  suffered  his  acquaintances  to  com- 
ment upon  his  son's  behavior ;  his  own  treat- 
ment of  him  in  public  had  insisted  upon  the 
rendering  of  respect  from  other  people,  but 
he  had  not  acknowledged  to  himself,  until 
this  last  sad  night,  that  there  was  no  practi- 
cal result  to  be  hoped  for  from  Warren's 
gifts  and  graces.  This  might  have  been 
borne,  and  they  might  have  struggled  on  to- 
gether, somehow  or  other,  but  for  this  terri- 


80  AN  ONLY  SON. 

ble  blow  of  the  theft  of  the  town's  money, 
which  now  left  a  debt  and  sorrow  on  the  old 
man's  shoulders  almost  too  heavy  to  be 
borne. 

In  a  short  time  the  woods  were  passed, 
and  the  road  led  out  to  a  pleasant  country  of 
quite  different  character  from  the  lowland 
neighborhood  left  behind.  There  were  gently 
sloping  hills  and  long  lines  of  elms,  and  the 
farms  looked  more  prosperous.  One  farm 
only  on  this  road  was  unproductive,  and  this 
was  partly  the  fault  of  art,  and  partly  of 
nature,  for  it  was  the  homestead  of  Captain 
Stone,  a  better  sailor  than  farmer.  Its  pas- 
tures were  gathering-places  for  the  ledges, 
and  the  fields  were  all  made  swampy  by 
many  springs.  It  seemed  to  be  the  waste 
corner  of  that  region  for  all  unused  and 
undeveloped  materials  of  farming  land  ;  but 
while  there  was  every  requisite,  there  was  a 
chaotic  and  primitive  arrangement  of  clay, 
rock,  and  sand.  Yet  the  captain  had  settled 
down  here  in  blissful  content  as  a  tiller  of  the 
soil ;  and  while  he  might  have  bought  the 
best  farm  in  the  county,  he  congratulated 
himself  upon  his  rare  privileges  here,  and 
would  have  found  more  level  and  kindly 
acres  as  uninteresting  as  being  becalmed  in 


AN  ONLY  SON.  81 

tropic  seas.  He  worked  his  farm  as  he  had 
sailed  his  ships,  by  using  tact  and  discretion, 
and  with  true  seaman's  philosophy  he  never 
fretted.  He  waited  for  the  wind  to  change, 
or  the  tide  of  spring  to  flow,  or  of  winter  to 
ebb,  for  he  had  long  ago  learned  there  was 
no  hurrying  nature ;  and  to  hear  him  talk 
of  one  of  his  small  plots  of  thin  hay,  or 
slow -growing  potatoes,  you  would  have 
thought  it  an  intelligent  creature  which  ex- 
isted mainly  on  his  benevolent  encourage- 
ment and  tolerance.  By  some  persons  the 
captain  was  laughed  at,  and  by  others  he 
was  condemned.  The  trouble  was  that  he 
had  a  shrewd  insight  into  human  nature, 
and  was  so  impossible  to  deceive  or  to  per- 
suade against  his  will  that  he  had  made 
many  enemies,  who  had  hoped  to  grow  rich 
by  emptying  the  good  old  man's  pockets. 

It  was  to  this  lifelong  friend  that  Deacon 
Price  had  turned  in  his  extremity;  but  as 
he  drew  nearer  that  morning  to  the  red 
house  on  the  hilltop,  his  heart  began  to  fail 
him,  for  what  if  he  should  be  refused ! 
There  seemed  no  other  resource,  in  such  a 
case,  but  to  make  the  sad  occurence  known, 
or  to  go  away  in  search  of  Warren  himself. 
He  could  put  the  deeds  of  his  farm,  those 


82  AN  ONLY  SON. 

worn  deeds  that  had  come  down  from  father 
to  son,  generation  after  generation,  into  the 
hands  of  the  other  selectmen,  who  would  be 
sure  to  stand  his  friends  and  keep  the  secret 
for  a  time.  Warren  had  looked  discouraged, 
and  pale,  and  desperate  in  the  last  mouth, 
and  his  father  suddenly  remembered  this,  and 
groaned  aloud  as  he  wished  that  the  boy  had 
come  to  him,  and  that  he  had  made  it  possi- 
/  ble,  instead  of  coldly  ignoring  and  disap- 
proving him  day  after  day ;  such  a  mixture 
of  wrath  and  shame  and  compassion  has 
seldom  been  in  a  father's  heart. 

The  captain  was  abroad  early,  and  the 
deacon  saw  him  first,  sauntering  about  at 
the  foot  of  the  slope  on  which  his  house  and 
buildings  stood.  He  seemed  to  be  examining 
the  soil,  and  greeted  his  guest  with  a  hearty 
satisfaction.  The  deacon  slowly  alighted, 
and  leaving  his  trusty  steed  to  gnaw  the 
fence  or  browse  among  the  bushes  as  she 
chose,  went  into  the  field.  He  walked 
feebly,  and  when  he  met  the  captain  he 
could  hardly  find  words  to  tell  his  errand. 
Men  of  his  kind  are  apt  to  be  made  silent 
by  any  great  occurrence  ;  they  have  rarely 
}  anything  but  a  limited  power  of  expression, 


AN   ONLY  SON.  83 

and  their  language  only  serves  them  for 
common  use.  Those  who  have  lived  close 
to  nature  understand  each  other  without 
speech,  as  dogs  or  horses  do,  and  the  elder 
generations  of  New  Englanders  knew  less  of 
society  and  human  companionship  and  asso- 
ciation than  we  can  comprehend. 

The  captain  watched  his  visitor  as  he 
came  toward  him,  and  when  they  met  he 
gave  one  quick,  final  look,  and  then  pro- 
ceeded to  make  use  of  his  usual  forms  of 
greeting,  as  if  he  had  no  idea  that  anything 
was  the  matter. 

"  I  've  taken  a  notion  to  set  out  some 
cramb'ries  hereabouts  another  year,"  he 
announced.  "I  never  made  a  voyage  to 
sea  without  cramb'ries  aboard,  if  I  could 
help  myself.  They  last  well,  and  taste 
sprightly  when  other  things  is  begun  to  lose 
savor.  I  don't  cut  any  hay  to  speak  of,  in 
this  piece.  I  've  been  meaning  to  tackle  it 
somehow  —  See  here,"  —  pushing  it  with 
his  great  foot,  —  "  it 's  all  coming  up  brakes 
and  sedge.  I  do'  know  's  you  want  to  be 
standing  about  —  It  is  master  spongy  for 
good  grass  land,  and  't  would  be  a  great  ex- 
pense to  drain  it  off.  I  s'pose  I  'in  gettin' 
too  old  to  try  any  of  these  new  notions,  but 


84  AN  ONLY  SON. 

they  sort  of  divert  me.  We're  having  a 
bad  spell  o'  drought,  ain't  we?  'T  is  all 
tops  of  rocks  about  here,  and  we  're  singed 
pretty  brown."  The  captain  chattered  more 
briskly  than  was  his  wont ;  it  was  impossible 
to  mistake  the  fact  of  his  being  a  sailor,  for 
indeed  that  business  stamps  its  followers 
with  an  unmistakable  brand. 

They  ventured  upon  a  wetter  spot  than 
usual,  and  when  the  deacon  pulled  up  his 
foot  from  the  mire  underneath  with  a  re- 
sounding plop,  his  host  proposed  that  they 
should  seek  the  higher  ground. 

"  Pretty  smart  at  home  ?  '"  asked  the  cap- 
tain presently,  to  end  a  season  of  strange 
silence ;  and  the  deacon  replied,  at  first 
somewhat  sorrowfully,  that  they  were  fair  to 
middling,  but  explained  directly  that  Eliza 
was  away  for  a  couple  of  nights,  and  AYunx-n 
too  ;  it  cost  a  great  effort  to  speak  the  young 
man's  name. 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  rec'lect,"  growled  the  captain 
amiably.  "You  spoke  about  the  golden 
weddin'  yisterday ;  I  should  thought  you  'd 
ha'  gone  too,  along  with  'Liza ;  such  junkets 
ain't  to  be  had  every  day.  I  must  say  I 
wish  something  or  other  would  happen  to 
take  Mis'  Hawkes's  attention  off  of  me," 


AN  ONLY  SON.  85 

dropping  his  voice  cautiously,  as  they  came 
nearer  to  the  house.  "  She  's  had  a  dread- 
ful grumpy  time  of  it,  this  week  past,  and 
looked  homely  enough  to  stop  a  clock.  I 
used  to  be  concerned  along  in  the  first  of 
it,  when  I  come  off  the  sea,  but  I  found  it 
did  n't  do  no  hurt,  and  so  I  let  her  work, 
and  first  thing  you  know  the  wind  is  veered 
round  again  handsome,  and  off  you  go." 

The  deacon  tried  to  laugh  at  this;  the 
friends  seated  themselves  on  the  off  side  of 
the  wood-pile,  under  the  shade  of  a  great 
choke-pear  tree.  They  had  mounted  the 
chopping-block,  which  was  a  stout  elm  log, 
standing  on  six  legs,  so  that  it  looked  like 
some  stupid,  blunderheaded  creature  of  not 
altogether  harmless  disposition.  The  two 
old  men  were  quite  at  its  mercy  if  it  should 
canter  away  suddenly ;  but  they  talked  for 
some  minutes  on  ordinary  subjects,  and 
even  left  their  position  to  go  to  inspect  the 
pigs,  and  returned  again,  before  the  deacon 
arrived  at  an  explanation  of  his  errand. 

It  was  a  hard  thing  to  do,  and  the  cap- 
tain turned  and  looked  at  him  narrowly. 

"  I  've  got  to  use  the  money  right  away 
as  soon  as  I  can  have  it.  I  want  to  see  to 
some  business  this  forenoon  ;  you  know  I  've 


86  AN  ONLY  80 N. 

been  calc'latin'  to  go  to  the  south  village 
to-day  anyway.  I  did  n't  know  for  certain  I 
should  have  to  see  about  this,  or  I  would  n't 
have  given  you  such  short  notice  "  —  and 
here  the  deacon  stopped  again  ;  it  had  come 
very  near  an  untruth,  this  last  sentence, 
and  he  would  not  cheat  the  man  of  whom 
he  was  asking  so  great  a  favor. 

"  I  did  n't  fetch  the  papers  along  because 
I  did  n't  know  how  't  would  be  with  you," 
he  explained ;  "  they  '11  make  you  safe. 
Austin's  folks  was  talking  round,  this 
spring,  to  see  if  I  wanted  to  part  with  our 
north  field ;  his  youngest  son 's  a  smart 
fellow,  and  wants  to  set  up  for  himself  and 
have  a  truck  farm.  But  I'm  only  asking 
the  loan  for  a  time,  ye  know,  neighbor." 
and  the  deacon  looked  anxiously  at  the  old 
captain,  and  then  leaned  over,  poking  the 
chips  about  with  the  butt  of  his  whip,  which 
he  had  brought  with  him  from  the  wagon. 

"  You  shall  have  it,"  said  the  captain  at 
last.  "  'T  ain't  everybody  I  'd  do  such  a 
thing  to  obleege,  and  I  am  only  going  to 
have  my  say  about  one  thing,  John  :  I  never 
had  no  family  of  ray  own,  and  I  suppose  the 
feelin's  of  a  father  are  somethin'  I  don't 
know  nothing  about,  for  or  against ;  but  I 


AN  ONL  Y  SON.  87 

must  say  I  hate  to  see  ye  an  old  man  be- 
fore your  time,  runnin'  all  out  and  looking 
discouraged  on  account  o'  favoriu'  Warren. 
You  11  come  in  astern  o'  the  lighter,  and  he 
too ;  and  if  he  's  been  beseechin'  ye  to  get 
this  money  together  to  further  his  notions, 
I  'm  doing  ye  both  a  wrong  to  let  ye  have 
it.  But  I  can't  deny  ye,  and  I  've  got  more 
than  what  ye  say  ye  want,  right  here  in  the 
house  as  it  happens.  I  was  going  to  buy 
into  that  new  three-masted  schooner  the 
Otises  have  got  on  the  stocks  now ;  I  don't 
know  but  I  am  getting  along  in  years  to 
take  hold  of  anything  new  in  navigation." 

"  I  ain't  intending  to  let  Warren  have 
none  o'  this,"  said  the  deacon  humbly,  and 
he  longed  to  say  more,  and  felt  as  if  he 
never  could  hold  up  his  head  again  among 
his  fellows ;  and  the  time  seemed  very  long 
and  dreary  before  the  captain  came  back 
from  his  house  with  the  note  ready  to  sign, 
and  the  seven  hundred  dollars  ready  to  place 
in  the  deacon's  gray  and  shaking  hand. 
His  benefactor  pondered  long  over  this 
strange  visit,  longing  to  know  what  had 
happened,  but  he  assured  himself  over  and 
over  that  he  could  n't  help  letting  him  have 
it,  and  if  never  a  cent  of  it  came  back  there 


88  AN  ONLY  SON. 

was  nobody  he  was  gladder  to  oblige.  And 
John  Price  took  his  weary  way  to  the  south 
village  of  Dalton,  and  paid  a  sum  of  seven 
hundred  and  thirty-five  dollars  to  the  cred- 
itors of  the  town.  It  was  not  until  early  in 
the  afternoon  that  old  Abel  Stone  suddenly 
bethought  himself  that  something  might 
have  happened  about  that  payment  of  Jerry 
Jackson's.  If  he  were  not  growing  old  and 
a  fool  at  last !  Why  had  n't  he  asked  the 
deacon  if  he  had  lost  the  money  he  had 
taken  home  from  the  selectmen's  office ! 
And  when  Mrs.  Hawkes  afterward  ven- 
tured to  ask  him  a  harmless  question,  he 
had  grown  red  in  the  face  and  poured  forth 
a  torrent  of  nautical  language  which  had 
nearly  taken  her  breath  away,  without  ap- 
parent reason  or  excuse.  The  captain,  it 
must  be  confessed,  was  an  uncommon 
swearer;  he  was  one  of  the  people  who 
seem  to  serve  as  volcanoes,  or  outlets  for  the 
concealed  anger  of  poor  human  nature.  It 
is  difficult  to  explain  why  profanity  seems 
so  much  more  unlawful  and  shocking  in 
some  persons  than  in  others,  but  there  was 
something  fairly  amusing  in  the  flurry  and 
sputter  of  irreverent  words  which  betokened 
excitement  of  any  kind  in  the  mind  of  Cap. 


AN  ONLY  SON.  89 

tain  Stone.  He  even  forgot  himself  so  far 
as  to  swear  a  little  occasionally  in  the  course 
of  earnest  exhortations  in  the  evening 
prayer-meetings.  There  was  not  a  better 
man  or  a  sincerer  Christian  in  the  town  of 
Dalton,  though  he  had  become  a  church- 
member  late  in  life ;  and  knowing  this, 
there  was  never  anything  but  a  compassion- 
ate smile  when  he  grew  red  in  the  face  with 
zeal,  and  recommended  the  poor  damned 
dogs  of  heathen  to  mercy. 

Nothing  seemed  to  have  changed  out- 
wardly at  the  south  village.  John  Price 
did  his  errands  and  finished  his  business  as 
quickly  as  possible,  and  avoided  meeting  his 
acquaintances,  for  he  could  not  help  fearing 
that  he  should  be  questioned  about  this  mis- 
erable trouble.  As  he  left  the  bank  he 
could  not  help  giving  a  sigh  of  relief,  for 
that  emergency  was  bridged  over  ;  and  for 
a  few  minutes  he  kept  himself  by  main  force 
from  looking  at  the  future,  or  asking  himself 
"  What  next  ?  " 

But  as  he  turned  into  his  dust-powdered 
lane  again  at  noon,  the  curious  little  faces  of 
the  mayweed  blossoms  seemed  to  stare  up  at 
him,  and  there  was  nobody  to  speak  to  him, 


90  AN  ONLY  SON. 

and  the  house  was  like  a  tomb  where  all  the 
years  of  his  past  were  lying  dead,  and  all 
the  pleasantness  of  life  existed  only  in  re- 
membrance. 

He  began  to  wish  for  Warren  in  an  un- 
expected way ;  and  as  he  looked  about  the 
house  he  saw  everywhere  some  evidence  of 
his  son's  mechanical  skill.  Had  not  Eliza 
Storrow  left  home  without  a  fear  because,  as 
she  always  said,  Warren  was  as  handy  as  a 
woman  ?  The  remembrance  of  such  patient 
diligence  at  his  own  chosen  work,  his  quiet- 
ness under  reproof,  his  evident  discomfort 
at  having  to  be  dependent  upon  his  father, 
linked  to  a  perfect  faith  in  the  ultimate  suc- 
cess of  his  plans,  —  the  thought  of  all  these 
things  flashed  through  the  old  man's  mind. 
"  I  wish  I  had  waited  'til  he  told  me  what  he 
had  to  say,  yisterday,"  said  Deacon  Price  to 
himself.  "  'T  was  strange  about  that  fence 
too.  He  's  al'ays  been  willing  to  take  holt 
and  help  whenever  I  spoke  to  him."  He 
even  came  to  believe  that  the  boy  had  grown 
desperate,  and  in  some  emergency  had  gone 
in  search  of  new  materials  for  his  machine. 
"  He  's  so  forgitful,"  said  the  father,  "  he 
may  have  forgot  to  speak  about  the  money, 
and  't  was  but  a  small-looking  roll  of  bills. 


AN  ONLY  SON.  91 

He  '11  be  back  to-night,  like 's  not,  as  con- 
cerned as  can  be  when  he  finds  out  what 't  was 
he  took."  It  was  the  way  we  remember  only 
the  good  qualities  of  our  friends  who  have 
died,  and  let  the  bad  ones  fade  out  of  sight, 
and  so  know  the  angels  that  were  growing  in 
them  all  the  while,  and  have  thrown  off  the 
disguise  and  hindrance  of  the  human  shape. 

Towards  evening  Jacob  Austin,  a  neigh- 
bor, came  into  the  yard  on  an  errand,  and 
was  astonished  to  see  how  tired  and  old  the 
deacon  looked.  He  had  left  the  oxen  and 
their  great  load  of  coarse  meadow  hay  stand- 
ing in  the  road  at  the  end  of  the  lane,  and 
meant  at  first  to  shoulder  the  borrowed  pitch- 
fork and  quickly  rejoin  them,  but  it  was  im- 
possible. He  asked  if  anything  were  the 
matter,  and  was  answered  that  there  was 
something  trying  about  such  a  long  spell  of 
drought,  which  did  not  in  the  least  satisfy 
his  curiosity. 

"  No,"  said  the  deacon,  "  I  'm  getting  to 
be  an  old  man,  but  I  keep  my  health  fairly. 
Eliza  and  Warren,  they  're  both  off  'tending 
to  their  own  concerns,  but  I  make  sure  one 
or  both  of  'm  '11  be  back  toward  sundown." 
And  Jacob,  after  casting  about  in  his  mind 


92  AN  ONLY  SON. 

for  anything  further  to  say,  mentioned  again 
that  't  was  inconvenient  to  break  a  pitchfork 
right  in  the  middle  of  loading  a  rack,  and 
went  away. 

"  Looked  to  me  as  if  he  had  had  a  stroke," 
he  told  his  family  that  night  at  supper-time ; 
and  the  conduct  of  Warren  and  Eliza  Stor- 
row,  in  going  off  and  leaving  the  old  deacon 
to  shift  for  himself,  was  most  severely  com- 
mented upon. 

But  all  this  time,  the  latter  half  of  that 
Tuesday  afternoon,  Eliza  and  her  cousin 
Starbird  were  jogging  toward  home  over  the 
Dalton  and  Somerset  hills.  The  colt  was  in 
good  trim,  and  glad  to  be  nearing  his  own 
familiar  stall  again,  and  struck  out  at  an 
uncommonly  good  pace,  though  none  of  the 
swiftest  at  that.  It  was  hardly  six  o'clock 
when  the  two  tired-out  and  severely  sun- 
burnt women  came  into  the  yard.  The  dea- 
con heard  the  high-pitched  voice  which  he 
knew  so  well,  before  he  heard  the  sound  of 
the  wheels  on  the  soft,  dry  turf,  and  went 
out  to  greet  the  new-comers,  half  glad  and 
half  afraid.  Eliza  took  it  for  granted  that 
Warren  was  either  in  the  workshop  as  usual, 
or,  as  she  scornfully  expressed  it,  roaming 
the  hills,  and  did  not  ask  for  him.  Cousin 


AN  ONLY  SON.  93 

Starbird  had  accepted  an  invitation  to  tea, 
as  her  home  was  three  miles  farther  on. 
They  were  both  heavy  women,  and  stiff 
from  sitting  still  so  long  in  the  old  wagon, 
and  they  grumbled  a  little  as  they  walked 
toward  the  house. 

"  Yes,  't  was  a  splendid  occasion,"  Eliza 
answered  the  deacon,  as  he  stood  near,  hitch- 
ing the  colt  to  a  much  gnawed  post.  "  It  all 
went  off  beautifully.  Everybody  wanted  to 
know  where  you  was,  an'  Warren.  There, 
we  talked  till  we  was  all  about  dead,  and  eat 
ourselves  sick ;  you  never  saw  a  handsomer 
table  in  your  life.  The  old  folks  stood  it 
well,  but  I  see  they  'd  begun  to  kind  o'  give 
out  at  dinner-time  to-day,  —  last  night  was 
the  celebration,  you  know,  because  some 
could  come  in  the  evenin'  that  was  occupied 
by  day.  They  wanted  us  to  stop  longer,  but 
I  see 't  was  best  to  break  it  up,  and  I  'd  rather 
go  over  again  by  an'  by,  and  spend  the  day 
in  peace  an'  quietness,  and  have  a  good  visit. 
We  've  been  saying,  as  we  rode  along,  that 
we  should  n't  be  surprised  if  the  old  folks 
kind  o'  faded  out  after  this,  they  've  been 
lookin'  forward  to  it  so  long.  Well,  it's 
all  over,  like  a  hoss-race ;  "  and  Eliza  heaved 
a  great  sigh  and  went  into  the  front  room  to 


94  AN  ONLY  SON. 

open  the  blinds  and  make  it  less  stuffy; 
then  she  removed  her  best  bonnet  in  her 
own  room,  and  presently  came  out  to  get 
tea,  dressed  in  her  familiar  everyday  calico 
gown. 

The  deacon  was  sitting  by  the  open  win- 
dow, drumming  on  the  sill ;  he  had  a  trick 
of  beating  a  slow  tattoo  with  the  ends  of  his 
queerly  shaped  fingers.  They  were  long  and 
dry,  and  somehow  did  not  look  as  if  they 
were  useful,  though  John  Price  had  been  a 
hard-working  man.  Cousin  Starbird  had 
come  downstairs  first,  and  had  gone  out  to 
find  a  piece  of  the  golden  wedding  cake  that 
had  been  left  in  the  wagon.  Eliza  was  busy 
in  the  pantry,  scolding  a  good  deal  at  the 
state  she  found  it  in. 

"  Whatever  is  this  great  thing  in  my 
pocket !  "  she  exclaimed,  for  something  had 
struck  the  table-leg  as  she  came  by  it  to 
bring  the  last  brace  of  blueberry  pies  ;  then 
quickly  fumbling  in  the  pocket's  depths  she 
took  out  the  deacon's  great  brown  wallet, 
and  presented  it  to  its  owner. 

"  Good  King  Agrippy  !  '?  said  the  amazed 
man,  snatching  it,  and  looking  at  Eliza  an- 
grily and  then  at  the  wallet  again,  and  turn- 
ing it  over  in  his  hand. 


AN   ONLY  SON.  95 

"  I  ain't  give  it  a  thought,  from  that 
minute  to  this,"  said  Eliza,  who  was  not  a 
little  frightened.  "  I  s'pose  you  've  been 
thinking  you  lost  it.  I  thought  you  looked 
dreadful  wauiblecropped  when  I  first  saw 
you.  Why,  you  see,  I  did  n't  undertake  to 
wash  yesterday  mornin',  because  I  did  n't 
want  the  clothes  a-layin'  and  mildewin',  and 
I  kind  of  thought  perhaps  I  'd  put  it  off 
till  next  week,  anyway,  though  it  ain't  my 
principle  to  do  fortnight's  washes.  An'  I 
had  so  much  to  do,  gettin'  ready  to  start, 
that  I  'd  gone  in  early  and  made  up  your 
bed  and  not  put  a  clean  sheet  on  ;  but  you 
was  busy  takin'  out  the  hoss  after  you  come 
home  at  noon,  and  had  your  dinner  to  eat, 
and  I  had  the  time  to  spare,  so  I  just  slipped 
in  and  stripped  off  the  bedclothes  then,  and 
this  come  out  from  under  the  pillow.  I 
meant  to  hand  it  to  you  when  you  come 
in  from  the  barn,  but  I  forgot  it  the  next 
minute ;  you  know  we  was  belated  about 
starting,  and  I  was  scatter-witted.  I  hope 
it  ain't  caused  you  no  great  inconvenience  ; 
you  ain't  wanted  it  for  anything  very  spe- 
cial, have  you  ?  I  s'pose  't  was  foolish  to 
go  f  ussin'  about  the  bed,  but  I  thought  if 
you  should  be  sick  or  anything  "  — 


96  ^V   ONLY  SON. 

"  Well,  I  've  got  it  now,"  said  the  deacon, 
drawing  a  long  breath.  "  I  own  I  felt  some 
uneasy  about  it."  Presently  he  went  out  to 
the  yard,  and  across  the  garden,  and  beyond 
the  garden  to  the  family  burying-lot  in  the 
field.  He  would  have  gone  to  his  parish 
church  to  pray  if  he  had  been  a  devout 
Catholic ;  as  it  was,  this  was  the  nearest  ap- 
proach he  could  make  to  a  solemn  thanks- 
giving. 

Some  of  the  oldest  stones  lay  flat  on  the 
ground,  and  a  network  of  blackberry  vines 
covered  them  in  part.  The  leaves  were 
burnt  by  the  sun,  and  the  crickets  scrambled 
among  them  as  the  deacon's  foot-fall  startled 
them.  His  first  wife  and  his  second  wife 
both  were  buried  there,  their  resting-places 
marked  by  a  slate  head-stone  and  a  marble 
one,  and  it  was  to  this  last  that  the  old  man 
went.  His  first  wife  had  been  a  plain,  hard- 
worked  woman  of  sterling  worth,  and  his 
fortunes  hucl  declined  from  the  day  she  left 
him  to  guard  them  alone  ;  but  her  successor 
had  been  a  pale  and  delicate  school-teacher, 
who  had  roused  some  unsuspected  longing 
for  beauty  and  romance  in  Deacon  Pi-ice's 
otherwise  prosaic  nature.  She  had  seemed 
like  a  windflower  growing  beside  a  ledge ; 


AN   ONLY  SON.  97 

and  her  husband  had  been  forced  to  confess 
that  she  was  not  fit  for  a  farmer's  wife.  If 
he  could  have  had  a  combination  of  his  two 
partners,  he  had  once  ventured  to  think,  he 
would  have  been  exactly  suited.  But  it 
seemed  to  him,  as  he  stood  before  the  grave 
with  his  head  bowed,  the  only  way  of  mak- 
ing some  sign  of  his  sorrow,  he  had  wrong- 
fully accused  an  innocent  man,  his  son  and 
hers;  and  there  he  stayed,  doing  penance  as  i^-~ 
best  he  could,  until  Eliza's  voice  called  him 
to  the  house,  and  to  some  sort  of  comfort- 
able existence  and  lack  of  self-reproof. 

Before  they  had  finished  supper  Warren 
came  in,  looking  flushed  and  tired  ;  but  he 
took  his  seat  at  the  table  after  a  pleasant 
greeting,  and  the  deacon  passed  him  every 
plate  within  reach,  treating  him  with  un- 
common politeness.  The  father  could  not 
help  noticing  that  his  son  kept  stealing 
glances  at  him,  and  that  he  looked  pleased 
and  satisfied.  It  seemed  to  him  as  if  War- 
ren must  have  known  of  his  suspicions  and 
of  their  happy  ending,  but  it  was  discovered 
presently  that  the  long-toiled-over  machine 
had  proved  to  be  a  success.  Warren  had 
taken  it  to  his  former  employer  at  Lowell, 
who  gladly  promised,  so  great  was  his  de- 


98  AN  ONLY  SON. 

light  with  it,  to  pay  the  expenses  of  getting 
a  patent  in  exchange  for  a  portion  of  the 
right.  "  He  said  there  would  be  no  end  to 
the  sale  of  it,"  said  the  young  man,  looking 
eagerly  at  his  father's  face.  "I  wouldn't 
have  run  off  so  yesterday,  but  I  was  so  full 
of  it  I  could  n't  bear  to  think  of  losing  the 
cars,  and  I  didn't  want  to  say  one  word 
about  this  thing  till  I  was  sure. 

"  I  expect  I  have  been  slack,"  he  con- 
tinued with  evident  effort,  while  they  leaned 
over  the  garden  fence,  and  he  looked  at  his 
father  appealingly.  "  But  the  fact  is,  I 
could  n't  seem  to  think  of  other  things  ;  it 
took  all  there  was  of  me  to  keep  right  after 
that.  But  now  I  'm  going  to  take  right 
hold  and  be  some  help  about  the  place.  I 
don't  seem  to  want  to  touch  a  tool  again 
for  a  year."  Warren  looked  pale  and  rest- 
less ;  the  reaction  from  his  long  excitement 
had  set  in. 

The  deacon  gave  a  shaky  laugh,  and  struck 
his  son's  shoulder  by  way  of  a  clumsy  caress. 
"  Don't  you  go  to  frettin'  yourself  now,"  he 
said.  "  I  ain't  felt  so  pleased  as  I  do  to- 
day since  the  day  you  come  into  the  world. 
I  sort  of  felt  certain  then  that  you  was  goin' 
to  be  somebody,  I  do'  know  why  't  was," 


AN  ONLY  SON.  99 

—  and  he  turned  away  suddenly  toward  the 
house.  "  If  you  are  as  rich  as  you  say  you 
be,  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  between  us  we 
had  n't  better  get  them  blinds  painted,  and 
smart  us  up  a  little,  another  year.  I  de- 
clare, the  old  place  has  begun  to  look  con- 
siderable gone  to  seed." 

That  night  a  great  thunder-shower  broke 
the  spell  of  the  long  drought,  and  afterward, 
until  morning,  the  rain  fell  fast  upon  the 
thirsty  ground.  It  was  a  good  night  to 
sleep,  Eliza  said,  as  she  wearily  climbed  the 
crooked  backstairs  at  nine  o'clock,  for  there 
was  already  a  coolness  in  the  air.  Eliza 
never  was  told  the  whole  of  the  story  about 
the  wallet,  for  when  she  heard  part  of  it 
she  only  said  it  was  just  like  a  man,  —  they 
were  generally  the  most  helpless  creatur's 
alive.  The  deacon  might  have  known  she 
had  put  it  away  somewhere.  Why  did  n't 
he  come  and  ask  her  ?  He  never  seemed  to 
mistrust  that  it  was  a  direct  p'inting  out 
of  his  duty  to  ride  over  to  Somerset  to  the 
gathering,  and  just  speak  to  the  folks. 

In  the  early  morning,  while  it  was  cool 
and  wet,  Deacon  Price  drove  up  to  Captain 
Stone's  farm,  and  the  two  selectmen  perched 


100  AN   ONLY  SON. 

on  the  chopping-log  again,  while  the  confes- 
sion was  made  and  listened  to  with  great 
gravity.  The  captain  swore  roundly  in  his 
satisfaction,  and  said  he  was  going  to  have 
a  square  talk  with  Warren,  and  advise  with 
him  a  little,  for  fear  that  those  landsharks 
down  in  Lowell  should  undertake  to  cheat 
him.  He  stowed  away  the  repayment  of  the 
loan  in  one  of  his  big  pockets,  as  if  it  were  of 
little  consequence  to  him,  but  he  announced 
with  considerable  satisfaction  at  the  next 
selectmen's  meeting,  that  he  owned  a  few 
planks  of  that  three-masted  schooner  which 
the  Otises  were  about  ready  to  launch.  And 
he  winked  at  Deacon  Price  in  a  way  that 
their  brother  Kendall  was  not  able  to  un- 
derstand. 


MAESH  ROSEMARY. 


ONE  hot  afternoon  in  August,  a  single 
moving  figure  might  have  been  seen  follow- 
ing a  straight  road  that  crossed  the  salt 
marshes  of  Walpole.  Everybody  else  had 
either  stayed  at  home  or  crept  into  such 
shade  as  could  be  found  near  at  hand.  The 
thermometer  marked  at  least  ninety  de- 
grees. There  was  hardly  a  fishing-boat  to 
be  seen  on  the  glistening  sea,  only  far  away 
on  the  hazy  horizon  two  or  three  coasting 
schooners  looked  like  ghostly  Flying  Dutch- 
men, becalmed  for  once  and  motionless. 

Ashore,  the  flaring  light  of  the  sun  brought 
out  the  fine,  clear  colors  of  the  level  land- 
scape. The  marsh  grasses  were  a  more 
vivid  green  than  usual,  the  brown  tops  of 
those  that  were  beginning  to  go  to  seed 
looked  almost  red,  and  the  soil  at  the  edges 
of  the  tide  inlets  seemed  to  be  melting  into 


102  MARSH  ROSEMARY. 

a  black,  pitchy  substance  like  the  dark  pig- 
ments on  a  painter's  palette.  Where  the 
land  was  higher  the  hot  air  flickered  above 
it  dizzily.  This  was  not  an  afternoon  that 
one  would  naturally  choose  for  a  long  walk, 
yet  Mr.  Jerry  Lane  stepped  briskly  forward, 
and  appeared  to  have  more  than  usual 
energy.  His  big  boots  trod  down  the  soft 
carpet  of  pussy-clover  that  bordered  the 
dusty,  whitish  road.  He  struck  at  the  sta- 
tionary procession  of  thistles  with  a  little 
stick  as  he  went  by.  Flight  after  flight  of 
yellow  butterflies  fluttered  up  as  he  passed, 
and  then  wavered  down  again  to  their  thistle 
flowers,  while  on  the  shiny  cambric  back  of 
Jerry's  Sunday  waistcoat  basked  at  least 
eight  large  green-headed  flies  in  complete 
security. 

It  was  difficult  to  decide  why  the  Sunday 
waistcoat  should  have  been  put  on  that  Sat- 
urday afternoon.  Jerry  had  not  thought  it 
important  to  wear  his  best  boots  or  best 
trousers,  and  had  left  his  coat  at  home  alto- 
gether. He  smiled  as  he  walked  along,  and 
once  when  he  took  off  his  hat,  as  a  light 
breeze  came  that  way,  he  waved  it  triumph- 
antly before  he  put  it  on  again.  Evidently 
this  was  no  common  errand  that  led  him  due 


MARSH  ROSEMARY.  103 

west,  and  made  him  forget  the  hot  weather, 
and  caused  him  to  shade  his  eyes  with  his 
hand,  as  he  looked  eagerly  at  a  clump  of 
trees  and  the  chimney  of  a  small  house  a  lit- 
tleway  beyond  the  boundary  of  the  marshes, 
where  the  higher  ground  began. 

Miss  Ann  Floyd  sat  by  her  favorite  win- 
dow, sewing,  twitching  her  thread  less  de- 
cidedly than  usual,  and  casting  a  wistful 
glance  now  and  then  down  the  road,  or  at 
the  bees  in  her  gay  little  garden  outside. 
There  was  a  grim  expression  overshadowing 
her  firmly-set,  angular  face,  and  the  frown 
that  always  appeared  on  her  forehead  when 
she  sewed  or  read  the  newspaper  was  deeper 
and  straighter  than  usual.  She  did  not  look 
as  if  she  were  conscious  of  the  heat,  though 
she  had  dressed  herself  in  an  old-fashioned 
skirt  of  sprigged  lawn  and  a  loose  jacket 
of  thin  white  dimity  with  out-of-date  flow- 
ing sleeves.  Her  sandy  hair  was  smoothly 
brushed ;  one  lock  betrayed  a  slight  crinkle 
at  its  edge,  but  it  owed  nothing  to  any  en- 
couragement of  Nancy  Floyd's.  A  hard, 
honest,  kindly  face  this  was,  of  a  woman 
whom  everybody  trusted,  who  might  be  ex- 
pected to  give  of  whatever  she  had  to  give, 


104  MARSH  ROSEMARY. 

good  measure,  pressed  down  and  running 
over.  She  was  a  lonely  soul ;  she  had  no 
near  relatives  in  the  world.  It  seemed  al- 
ways as  if  nature  had  been  mistaken  in  not 
planting  her  somewhere  in  a  large  and  busy 
household. 

The  little  square  room,  kitchen  in  winter 
and  sitting-room  in  summer,  was  as  clean 
and  bare  and  tlu-ifty  as  one  would  expect 
the  dwelling-place  of  such  a  woman  to  be. 
She  sat  in  a  straight-backed,  splint-bottomed 
kitchen  chair,  and  always  put  back  her  spool 
with  a  click  on  the  very  same  spot  on  the 
window-sill.  You  would  think  she  had  done 
with  youth  and  with  love  affairs,  yet  you 
might  as  well  expect  the  ancient  cherry-tree 
in  the  corner  of  her  yard  to  cease  adventur- 
ing its  white  blossoms  when  the  May  sun 
shone!  ^o  woman  in  Walpole  had  more 
bravely  and  patiently  borne  the  burden  of 
loneliness  and  lack  of  love.  Even  now  her 
outward  behavior  gave  no  hint  of  the  new 
excitement  and  delight  that  filled  her  heart. 

"  Land  sakes  alive !  "  she  says  to  herself 
presently,  "there  comes  Jerry  Lane.  I  ex- 
pect, if  he  sees  me  settin'  to  the  winder, 
he  '11  come  in  an'  dawdle  round  till  supper- 


MARSH  ROSEMARY.  105 

time ! "  But  good  Nancy  Floyd  smooths 
her  hair  hastily  as  she  rises  and  drops  her 
work,  and  steps  back  toward  the  middle  of 
the  room,  watching  the  gate  anxiously  all 
the  time.  Now,  Jerry,  with  a  crestfallen 
look  at  the  vacant  window,  makes  believe 
that  he  is  going  by,  and  takes  a  loitering 
step  or  two  onward,  and  then  stops  short ; 
with  a  somewhat  sheepish  smile  he  leans 
over  the  neat  picket  fence  and  examines  the 
blue  and  white  and  pink  larkspur  that  covers 
most  of  the  space  in  the  little  garden.  He 
takes  off  his  hat  again  to  cool  his  forehead, 
and  replaces  it,  without  a  grand  gesture  this 
time,  and  looks  again  at  the  window  hope- 
fully. There  is  a  pause.  The  woman  knows 
that  the  man  is  sure  she  is  there ;  a  little 
blush  colors  her  thin  cheeks  as  she  comes 
boldly  to  the  wide-open  front  door. 

"What  do  you  think  of  this  kind  of 
weather?"  asks  Jerry  Lane  complacently, 
as  he  leans  over  the  fence,  and  surrounds 
himself  with  an  air  of  self-sacrifice. 

"  I  call  it  hot,"  responds  the  Juliet  from 
her  balcony,  with  deliberate  assurance,  "  but 
the  corn  needs  sun,  everybody  says.  I 
should  n't  have  wanted  to  toil  up  from  the 
shore  under  such  a  glare,  if  I  had  been  you. 


106  MARSH  ROSEMARY. 

Better  come  in  and  set  awhih-,  and  cool  off," 
she  added,  without  any  apparent  enthusiasm. 
Jerry  was  sure  to  come,  anyway.  She  would 
rather  make  the  suggestion  than  have  him. 

Mr.  Lane  sauntered  in,  and  seated  him- 
self opposite  his  hostess,  beside  the  other 
small  window,  and  watched  her  admiringly 
as  she  took  up  her  sewing  and  worked  at  it 
with  great  spirit  and  purpose.  He  clasped 
his  hands  together  and  leaned  forward  a 
little.  The  shaded  kitchen  was  veiy  com- 
fortable, after  the  glaring  light  outside,  and 
the  clean  orderliness  of  the  few  chairs,  and 
the  braided  rugs,  and  the  table  under  the 
clock,  with  some  larkspur  and  asparagus  in 
a  china  vase  for  decoration,  seemed  to  please 
him  unexpectedly.  "  Now  just  see  what 
ways  you  women  folks  have  of  fixing  things 
up  smart !  "  he  ventured  gallantly. 

Nancy's  countenance  did  not  forbid  fur- 
ther compliment ;  she  looked  at  the  flowers 
herself,  quickly,  and  explained  that  she  had 
gathered  them  a  while  ago  to  send  to  the 
minister's  sister,  who  kept  house  for  him. 
"  I  saw  him  going  by,  ami  expected  he  'd  be 
back  this  same  road.  Mis'  Elton 's  be?n 
havin'  another  o'  her  dyin'  spells  this  noon, 
and  the  deacon  went  by  after  him  hot  foot, 


MARSH  ROSEMARY.  107 

I  'd  souse  her  well  with  stone-cold  water. 
She  never  sent  for  me  to  set  up  with  her ; 
she  knows  better.  Poor  man,  't  was  likely 
he  was  right  into  the  middle  of  to-morrow's 
sermon.  'T  ain't  considerate  of  the  deacon, 
and  when  he  knows  he's  got  a  fool  for  a 
wife,  he  need  n't  go  round  persuading  other 
folks  she 's  so  suffering  as  she  makes  out. 
They  ain't  got  no  larkspur  this  year  to  the 
parsonage,  and  I  was  going  to  let  the  minis- 
ter take  this  over  to  Amandy ;  but  I  see  his 
wagon  over  on  the  other  road,  going  towards 
the  village,  about  an  hour  after  he  went  by 
here." 

It  seemed  to  be  a  relief  to  tell  somebody 
all  these  things  after  such  a  season  of  forced 
repression,  and  Jerry  listened  with  gratify- 
ing interest.  "  How  you  do  see  through 
folks  !  "  he  exclaimed  in  a  mild  voice.  Jerry 
could  be  very  soft  spoken  if  he  thought  best. 
"  Mis'  Elton 's  a  die-away  lookin'  creatur'. 
I  heard  of  her  saying  last  Sunday,  comin' 
out  o'  meetin',  that  she  made  an  effort  to  git 
there  once  more,  but  she  expected  'twould 
be  the  last  time.  Looks  as  if  she  eat  well, 
don't  she?"  he  concluded  in  a  meditative 
tone. 

"  Eat !  "  exclaimed  the  hostess,  with  snap- 


108  MARSH  ROSEMARY. 

ping  eyes.  "  There  ain't  no  woman  in  town, 
sick  or  well,  can  lay  aside  the  food  that  she 
does.  'T  ain't  to  the  table  afore  folks,  but 
she  goes  seeking  round  in  the  cupboards 
half  a  dozen  times  a  day.  An'  I  've  heard 
her  remark  't  was  the  last  time  she  ever 
expected  to  visit  the  sanctuary  as  much  as 
a  dozen  times  within  five  years." 

"  Some  places  I  've  sailed  to  they  'd  have 
hit  her  over  the  head  with  a  club  long  ago," 
said  Jerry,  with  an  utter  lack  of  sympathy 
that  was  startling.  "  Well,  I  must  be  get- 
tin'  back  again.  Talkin'  of  eatin'  makes  us 
think  o'  supper-time.  Must  be  past  five, 
ain't  it  ?  I  thought  I  'd  just  step  up  to  see 
if  there  wa'n't  anything  I  could  lend  a  hand 
about,  this  hot  day." 

Sensible  Ann  Floyd  folded  her  hands  over 
her  sewing,  as  it  lay  in  her  lap,  and  looked 
straight  before  her  without  seeing  the  plead- 
ing face  of  the  guest.  This  moment  was  a 
great  crisis  in  her  life.  She  was  conscious 
of  it,  and  knew  well  enough  that  upon  her 
next  words  would  depend  the  course  of  fu- 
ture events.  The  man  who  waited  to  hear 
what  she  had  to  say  was  indeed  many  years 
younger  than  she,  was  shiftless  and  vacillat- 
ing. He  had  drifted  to  Walpole  from  no- 


MARSE  ROSEMARY.  109 

body  knew  where,  and  possessed  many  quali- 
ties which  she  had  openly  rebuked  and  de- 
spised in  other  men.  True  enough,  he  was 
good-looking,  but  that  did  not  atone  for  the 
lacks  of  his  character  and  reputation.  Yet 
she  knew  herself  to  be  the  better  man  of  the 
two,  and  since  she  had  surmounted  many  ob- 
stacles already  she  was  confident  that,  with 
a  push  here  and  a  pull  there  to  steady  him, 
she  could  keep  him  in  good  trim.  The  win- 
ters were  so  long  and  lonely ;  her  life  was 
in  many  ways  hungry  and  desolate  in  spite 
of  its  thrift  and  conformity.  She  had 
laughed  scornfully  when  he  stopped,  one  day 
in  the  spring,  and  offered  to  help  her  weed 
her  garden  ;  she  had  even  joked  with  one 
of  the  neighbors  about  it.  Jerry  had  been 
growing  more  and  more  friendly  and  pleas- 
ant ever  since.  His  ease-loving,  careless  na- 
ture was  like  a  comfortable  cushion  for  hers, 
with  its  angles,  its  melancholy  anticipations 
and  self-questionings.  But  Jerry  liked  her, 
and  if  she  liked  him  and  married  him,  and 
took  him  home,  it  was  nobody's  business  , 
and  in  that  moment  of  surrender  to  Jerry's 
cause  she  arrayed  herself  at  his  right  hand 
against  the  rest  of  the  world,  ready  for  war- 
fare with  any  and  all  of  its  opinions. 


110  MARSH  ROSEMARY. 

She  was  suddenly  aware  of  the  sunburnt 
face  and  light,  curling  hair  of  her  unde- 
clared lover,  at  the  other  end  of  the  painted 
table  with  its  folded  leaf.  She  smiled  at 
him  vacantly  across  the  larkspur ;  then  she 
gave  a  little  start,  and  was  afraid  that  her 
thoughts  had  wandered  longer  than  was 
seemly.  The  kitchen  clock  was  ticking 
faster  than  usual,  as  if  it  were  trying  to 
attract  attention. 

"  I  guess  I  '11  be  getting  home,"  repeated 
the  visitor  ruefully,  and  rose  from  his  chair, 
but  hesitated  again  at  an  unfamiliar  expres- 
sion upon  his  companion's  face. 

"  I  don't  know  as  I  've  got  anything  extra 
for  supper,  but  you  stop,"  she  said,  "an* 
take  what  there  is.  I  would  n't  go  back 
across  them  marshes  right  in  this  heat." 

Jerry  Lane  had  a  lively  sense  of  humor, 
and  a  queer  feeling  of  merriment  stole  over 
him  now,  as  he  watched  the  mistress  of  the 
house.  She  had  risen,  too  ;  she  looked  so 
simple  and  so  frankly  sentimental,  there  was 
such  an  incongruous  coyness  added  to  her 
^usually  straightforward,  angular  appearance, 
that  his  instinctive  laughter  nearly  got  the 
better  of  him,  and  might  have  lost  him  the 
•prize  for  which  he  had  been  waiting  these 


MARSH  ROSEMARY.  Ill 

many  months.  But  Jerry  behaved  like  a 
man :  he  stepped  forward  and  kissed  Ann 
Floyd  ;  he  held  her  fast  with  one  arm  as  he 
stood  beside  her,  and  kissed  her  again  and 
again.  She  was  a  dear  good  woman.  She 
had  a  fresh  young  heart,  in  spite  of  the 
straight  wrinkle  in  her  forehead  and  her 
work-worn  hands.  She  had  wanted  all  her 
days  for  this  joy  of  having  a  lover. 


II. 


EVEN  Mrs.  Elton  revived  for  a  day  or  two 
under  the  tonic  of  such  a  piece  of  news. 
That  was  what  Jerry  Lane  had  hung  round 
for  all  summer,  everybody  knew  at  last. 
Now  he  would  strike  work  and  live  at  his 
ease,  the  men  grumbled  to  each  other  ;  but 
all  the  women  of  Walpole  deplored  most 
the  weakness  and  foolishness  of  the  elderly 
bride.  Ann  Floyd  was  comfortably  off,  and 
had  something  laid  by  for  a  rainy  day  ;  she 
would  have  done  vastly  better  to  deny  her- 
self such  an  expensive  and  utterly  worthless 
luxury  as  the  kind  of  husband  Jerry  Lane 
would  make.  He  had  idled  away  his  life. 
He  earned  a  little  money  now  and  then  in 


112  MARSH  ROSEMARY. 

seafaring  pursuits,  but  was  too  lazy,  in  the 
shore  parlance,  to  tend  lobster-pots.  What 
was  energetic  Ann  Floyd  going  to  do  with 
him  ?  She  was  always  at  work,  always  equal 
I  to  emergencies,  and  entirely  opposed  to 
\dullness  and  idleness  and  even  placidity, 
ohe  often  avowed  scornfully  that  she  liked 
people  who -had  some  snap  to  them,  and  now 
she  had  chosen  for  a  husband  the  laziest 
man  in  Walpole.  "  Dear  sakes,"  one  wo- 
man said  to  another,  as  they  heard  the  news, 
"  there  's  no  fool  like  an  old  fool !  " 

The  days  went  quickly  by,  while  Miss 
Ann  made  her  plain  wedding  clothes.  If 
people  expected  her  to  put  on  airs  of  youth 
they  were  disappointed.  Her  wedding  bon- 
net was  the  same  sort  of  bonnet  she  had 
worn  for  a  dozen  years,  and  one  disap- 
pointed critic  deplored  the  fact  that  she  had 
spruced  up  so  little,  and  kept  on  dressing 
old  enough  to  look  like  Jerry  Lane's  mother. 
As  her  acquaintances  met  her  they  looked 
at  her  with  close  scrutiny,  expecting  to  see 
some  outward  trace  of  such  a  silly,  um-liar- 
acteristic  departure  from  good  sense  and 
discretion.  But  Miss  Floyd,  while  she  was 
still  Miss  Floyd,  displayed  no  silliness  and 
behaved  with  dignity,  while  on  the  Sunday 


MARSH  ROSEMARY.  113 

after  a  quiet  marriage  at  the  parsonage  she 
and  Jerry  Lane  walked  up  the  side  aisle 
together  to  their  pew,  the  picture  of  mid- 
dle-aged sobriety  and  respectability.  Their 
fellow-parishioners,  having  recovered  from 
their  first  astonishment  and  amusement,  set- 
tled down  to  the  belief  that  the  newly  mar- 
ried pair  understood  their  own  business  best, 
and  that  if  anybody  could  make  the  best  of 
Jerry  and  get  any  work  out  of  him,  it  was 
his  capable  wife. 

"  And  if  she  undertakes  to  drive  him  too 
hard  he  can  slip  off  to  sea,  and  they  '11  be 
rid  of  each  other,"  commented  one  of  Jerry's 
'longshore  companions,  as  if  it  were  only 
reasonable  that  some  refuge  should  be  af- 
forded to  those  who  make  mistakes  in  mat- 
rimony. 

There  did  not  seem  to  be  any  mistake  at 
first,  or  for  a  good  many  months  afterward. 
The  husband  liked  the  comfort  that  came 
from  such  good  housekeeping,  and  enjoyed  a 
deep  sense  of  having  made  a  good  anchorage 
in  a  well-sheltered  harbor,  after  many  years 
of  thriftless  improvidence  and  drifting  to 
and  fro.  There  were  some  hindrances  to 
perfect  happiness :  he  had  to  forego  long 


114  MARSH  ROSEMARY. 

seasons  of  gossip  with  his  particular  friend-;. 
and  the  outdoor  work  which  was  expected 
of  him,  though  by  no  means  heavy  for  a  per- 
son of  his  strength,  fettered  his  freedom  not 
a  little.  To  chop  wood,  and  take  care  of 
a  cow,  and  bring  a  pail  of  water  now  and 
then,  did  not  weary  him  so  much  as  it  made 
him  practically  understand  the  truth  of 
weakly  Sister  Elton's  remark,  that  life  was 
a  constant  chore.  And  when  poor  Jerry, 
for  lack  of  other  interest,  fancied  that  his 
health  was  giving  way  mysteriously,  and 
brought  home  a  bottle  of  strong  liquor  to  be 
used  in  case  of  sickness,  and  placed  it  con- 
veniently in  the  shed,  Mrs.  Lane  locked  it 
up  in  the  small  chimney  cupboard  where  she 
kept  her  camphor  bottle  and  her  opodeldoc 
and  the  other  family  medicines.  She  was 
not  harsh  with  her  husband.  She  cherished 
him  tenderly,  and  worked  diligently  at  her 
trade  of  tailoress,  singing  her  hymns  gayly 
in  summer  weather  ;  for  she  never  had  been 
so  happy  as  now,  when  there  was  somebody 
to  please  beside  herself,  to  cook  for  and  sew 
for,  and  to  live  with  and  love.  But  Jerry 
complained  more  and  more  in  his  inmost 
heart  that  his  wife  expected  too  much  of 
him.  Presently  he  resumed  an  old  habit  of 


MARSH  ROSEMARY.  115 

resorting  to  the  least  respected  of  the  two 
country  stores  of  that  neighborhood,  and  sat 
in  the  row  of  loafers  on  the  outer  steps. 
"  Sakes  alive,"  said  a  shrewd  observer  one 
day,  "  the  fools  set  there  and  talk  and  talk 
about  what  they  went  through  when  they 
follered  the  sea,  and  when  the  women-folks 
comes  tradin'  they  are  obleeged  to  climb 
right  over  'em." 

Things  grew  worse  and  worse,  until  one 
day  Jerry  Lane  came  home  a  little  late  to 
dinner,  and  found  his  wife  unusually  grim- 
faced  and  impatient.  He  took  his  seat 
with  an  amiable  smile,  and  showed  in  every 
way  a  fine  determination  not  to  lose  his  tem- 
per because  somebody  else  had.  It  was  one 
of  the  days  when  he  looked  almost  boyish 
and  entirely  irresponsible.  His  hair  was 
bright  and  curly  from  the  dampness  of  the 
east  wind,  and  his  wife  was  forced  to  remem- 
ber how,  in  the  days  of  their  courtship,  she 
used  to  wish  that  she  could  pull  one  of  the 
curling  locks  straight,  for  the  pleasure  of 
seeing  it  fly  back.  Nancy  felt  old  and  tired, 
and  was  hurt  in  her  very  soul  by  the  con- 
trast between  herself  and  her  husband.  "  No 
wonder  I  am  aging,  having  to  lug  everything 
on  my  shoulders,"  she  thought.  Jerry  had 


116  MARSH  ROSEMARY. 

forgotten  to  do  whatever  she  had  asked  him 
for  a  day  or  two.  He  had  started  out  that 
morning  to  go  lobstering,  but  returned  from 
the  direction  of  the  village. 

"  Nancy,"  he  said  pleasantly,  after  he  had 
begun  his  dinner,  a  silent  and  solitary  meal, 
while  his  wife  stitched  busily  by  the  window, 
and  refused  to  look  at  him,  —  "  Nancy,  I ' ve 
been  thinking  a  good  deal  about  a  project." 

"I  hope  it  ain't  going  to  cost  so  much 
and  bring  in  so  little  as  your  other  notions 
have,  then,"  she  responded  quickly ;  though 
somehow  a  memory  of  the  hot  day  when 
Jerry  came  and  stood  outside  the  fence,  and 
kissed  her  when  it  was  settled  he  should  stay 
to  supper,  —  a  memory  of  that  day  would 
keep  fading  and  brightening  in  her  mind. 

"  Yes,"  said  Jerry  humbly,  "  I  ain't  done 
right,  Nancy.  I  ain't  done  my  part  for  our 
livin'.  I  've  let  it  sag  right  on  to  you,  most 
ever  since  we  was  married.  There  was  that 
spell  when  I  was  kind  of  weakly,  and  had  a 
pain  acrost  me.  I  tell  you  what  it  is :  I 
never  was  good  for  nothin'  ashore,  but  now 
I  've  got  my  strength  up  I  'm  going  to  show 
ye  what  I  can  do.  I  'm  promised  to  ship 
with  Cap'n  Low's  brother,  Skipper  Nathan, 
that  sails  out  o'  Eastport  in  the  coasting 


MARSH  ROSEMARY.  117 

trade,  lumber  and  so  on.  I  shall  get  good 
wage's,  and  you  shall  keep  the  whole  on  't 
'cept  what  I  need  for  clothes." 

"  You  need  n't  be  so  plaintive,"  said  Ann 
in  a  sharp  voice.  "  You  can  go  if  you  want 
to.  I  have  always  been  able  to  take  care  of 
myself,  but  when  it  comes  to  maintainin' 
two,  't  ain't  so  easy.  When  be  you  goin'  ?  " 

"I  expected  you  would  be  distressed," 
mourned  Jerry,  his  face  falling  at  this  out- 
break. "  Nancy,  you  need  n't  be  so  quick. 
'T  ain't  as  if  I  had  n't  always  set  consid'able 
by  ye,  if  I  be  wuthless." 

Nancy's  eyes  flashed  fire  as  she  turned 
hastily  away.  Hardly  knowing  where  she 
went,  she  passed  through  the  open  doorway, 
and  crossed  the  clean  green  turf  of  the  nar- 
row side  yard,  and  leaned  over  the  garden 
fence.  The  young  cabbages  and  cucumbers 
were  nearly  buried  in  weeds,  and  the  cur- 
rant bushes  were  fast  being  turned  into 
skeletons  by  the  ravaging  worms.  Jerry 
had  forgotten  to  sprinkle  them  with  helle- 
bore, after  all,  though  she  had  put  the  wa- 
tering-pot into  his  very  hand  the  evening 
before.  She  did  not  like  to  have  the  whole 
town  laugh  at  her  for  hiring  a  man  to  do 
his  work ;  she  was  busy  from  early  morning 


118  MARSH  ROSEMARY. 

until  late  night,  but  she  could  not  do  every- 
thing herself.  She  had  been  a  fool  to  marry 
this  man,  she  told  herself  at  last,  and  a  sul- 
len  discontent  and  rage,  that  had  been  of 
slow  but  certain  growth,  made  her  long  to 
free  herself  from  this  unprofitable  hindrance 
for  a  time,  at  any  rate.  Go  to  sea  ?  Yes, 
that  was  the  best  thing  that  could  happen. 
Perhaps  when  he  had  worked  hard  a  while 
on  schooner  fare,  he  would  come  home  and 
be  good  for  something ! 

Jerry  finished  his  dinner  in  the  course  of 
time,  and  then  sought  his  wife.  It  was  not 
like  her  to  go  away  in  this  silent  fashion. 
Of  late  her  gift  of  speech  had  been  proved 
sufficiently  formidable,  and  yet  she  had 
never  looked  so  resolutely  angry  as  to-day. 

"  Nancy,"  he  began,  —  "  Nancy,  girl !  I 
ain't  goin'  off  to  leave  you,  if  your  heart 's 
set  against  it.  I  '11  spudge  up  and  take 
right  holt." 

But  the  wife  turned  slowly  from  the  fence 
and  faced  him.  Her  eyes  looked  as  if  she 
had  been  crying.  "  You  need  n't  stay  on 
my  account,"  she  said.  "  I  '11  go  right  to 
work  an'  fit  ye  out.  I  'm  sick  of  your 
meechin'  talk,  and  I  don't  want  to  hear  no 
more  of  it.  Ef  /  was  a  man  "  — 


MARSH  ROSE  MART.  119 

Jerry  Lane  looked  crestfallen  for  a  min- 
ute or  two ;  but  when  his  stern  partner  in 
life  had  disappeared  within  the  house,  he 
slunk  away  among  the  apple-trees  of  the 
little  orchard,  and  sat  down  on  the  grass  in 
a  shady  spot.  It  was  getting  to  be  warm 
weather,  but  he  would  go  round  and  hoe  the 
old  girl's  garden  stuff  by  and  by.  There 
would  be  something  going  on  aboard  the 
schooner,  and  with  delicious  anticipation  of 
future  pleasure  the  delinquent  Jerry  struck 
his  knee  with  his  hand,  as  if  he  were  clap- 
ping a  crony  on  the  shoulder.  He  also 
winked  several  times  at  the  same  fancied  com- 
panion. Then,  with  a  comfortable  chuckle, 
he  laid  himself  down,  and  pulled  his  old 
hat  over  his  eyes,  and  went  to  sleep,  while 
the  weeds  grew  at  their  own  sweet  will,  and 
the  currant  worms  went  looping  and  de- 
vouring from  twig  to  twig. 


in. 

SUMMER  went  by,  and  winter  began,  and 
Mr.  Jerry  Lane  did  not  reappear.  He  had 
promised  to  return  in  September  when  he 
parted  from  his  wife  early  in  June,  for 


120  MARSH  ROSEMARY, 

Nancy  had  relented  a  little  at  the  last,  and 
sorrowed  at  the  prospect  of  so  long  a  sepa- 
ration. She  had  already  learned  the  vacil- 
lations and  uncertainties  of  her  husband's 
character ;  but  though  she  accepted  the  truth 
that  her  marriage  had  been  in  every  way 
a  piece  of  foolishness,  she  still  clung  affec- 
tionately to  his  assumed  fondness  for  her. 
She  could  not  believe  that  this  marriage  was 
only  one  of  his  makeshifts,  and  that  as  soon 
as  he  grew  tired  of  the  constraint  he  would 
be  ready  to  throw  the  benefits  of  respectable 
home  life  to  the  four  winds.  A  little  senti- 
mental speech-making  and  a  few  kisses  the 
morning  he  went  away,  and  the  gratitude 
he  might  well  have  shown  for  her  generous 
care-taking  and  provision  for  his  voyage 
won  her  soft  heart  back  again,  and  made 
poor,  elderly,  simple-hearted  Nancy  watch 
him  cross  the  marshes  with  tears  and  fore- 
boding. If  she  could  have  called  him  back 
that  day,  she  would  have  done  so  and  been 
thankful.  And  all  summer  and  winter, 
whenever  the  wind  blew  and  thrashed  the 
drooping  elm  boughs  against  the  low  roof 
over  her  head,  she  was  as  full  of  fears  and 
anxieties  as  if  Jerry  were  her  only  son  and 
making  his  first  voyage  at  sea.  The  neigh- 


MARSH  ROSEMARY.  121 

bors  pitied  her  for  her  disappointment. 
They  liked  Nancy  ;  but  they  could  not  help 
saying,  "  I  told  you  so."  It  would  have 
been  impossible  not  to  respect  the  brave  way 
in  which  she  met  the  world's  eye,  and  car- 
ried herself  with  innocent  unconsciousness 
of  having  committed  so  laughable  and  unre- 
warding a  folly.  The  loafers  on  the  store 
steps  had  been  unwontedly  diverted  one  day, 
when  Jerry,  who  was  their  chief  wit  and 
spokesman,  rose  slowly  from  his  place,  and 
said  in  pious  tones,  "  Boys,  I  must  go  this 
minute.  Grandma  will  keep  dinner  wait- 
ing." Mrs.  Ann  Lane  did  not  show  in  her 
aging  face  how  young  her  heart  was,  and 
after  the  schooner  Susan  Barnes  had  de- 
parted she  seemed  to  pass  swiftly  from  mid- 
dle life  and  an  almost  youthful  vigor  to 
early  age  and  a  look  of  spent  strength  and 
dissatisfaction.  "  I  suppose  he  did  find  it 
stupid,"  she  assured  herself,  with  wistful 
yearning  for  his  rough  words  of  praise, 
when  she  sat  down  alone  to  her  dinner,  or 
looked  up  sadly  from  her  work,  and  missed 
the  amusing  though  unedifying  conversa- 
tion he  was  wont  to  offer  on  stormy  winter 
nights.  How  many  of  his  marvelous  tales 
were  true  she  never  cared  to  ask.  He  had 


122  MARSH  ROSEMARY. 

come  and  gone,  and  she  forgave  him  his 
shortcomings,  and  longed  for  his  society 
with  a  heavy  heart. 

One  spring  day  there  was  news  in  the 
Boston  paper  of  the  loss  of  the  schooner 
Susan  Barnes  with  all  on  board,  and  Nancy 
Lane's  best  friends  shook  their  sage  heads, 
and  declared  that  as  far  as  regarded  that 
idle  vagabond,  Jerry  Lane,  it  was  all  for  the 
best.  Nobody  was  interested  in  any  other 
member  of  the  crew,  so  the  misfortune  of 
the  Susan  Barnes  seemed  of  but  slight  con- 
sequence in  Walpole,  she  having  passed  out 
of  her  former  owners'  hands  the  autumn  be- 
fore. Jerry  had  stuck  by  the  ship  ;  at  least, 
so  he  had  sent  word  then  to  his  wife  by 
Skipper  Nathan  Low.  The  Susan  Barnes 
was  to  sail  regularly  between  Shediac  and 
Newfoundland,  and  Jerry  sent  five  dollars 
to  Nancy,  and  promised  to  pay  her  a  visit 
soon.  "  Tell  her  I  'm  layin'  up  somethin' 
handsome,"  he  told  the  skipper  with  a  grin, 
"  and  I  've  got  some  folks  in  Newfoundland 
I  '11  visit  with  on  this  voyage,  and  then  I  '11 
come  ashore  for  good  and  farm  it." 

Mrs.  Lane  took  the  five  dollars  from  the 
skipper  as  proudly  as  if  Jerry  had  done  the 
same  thing  so  many  times  before  that  she 


MARSH  ROSEMARY.  123 

hardly  noticed  it.  The  skipper  gave  the 
messages  from  Jerry,  and  felt  that  he  had 
done  the  proper  thing.  When  the  news 
came  long  afterward  that  the  schooner  was 
lost,  that  was  the  next  thing  that  Nancy 
knew  about  her  wandering  mate  ;  and  after 
the  minister  had  come  solemnly  to  inform 
her  of  her  bereavement,  and  had  gone  away 
again,  and  she  sat  down  and  looked  her 
widowhood  in  the  face,  there  was  not  a  sad- 
der nor  a  lonelier  woman  in  the  town  of 
Walpole. 

All  the  neighbors  came  to  condole  with 
our  heroine,  and,  though  nobody  was  aware 
of  it,  from  that  time  she  was  really  happier 
and  better  satisfied  with  life  than  she  had 
ever  been  before.  Now  that  she  had  an 
ideal  Jerry  Lane  to  mourn  over  and  think 
about,  to  cherish  and  admire,  she  was  day 
by  day  slowly  forgetting  the  trouble  he  had 
been  and  the  bitter  shame  of  him,  and  ex- 
alting his  memory  to  something  near  saint- 
liness.  "He  meant  well,"  she  told  herself 
again  and  again.  She  thought  nobody  could 
tell  so  good  a  story  ;  she  felt  that  with  her 
own  bustling,  capable  ways  he  had  no  chance 
to  do  much  that  he  might  have  done.  She 
had  been  too  quick  with  him,  and  alas,  alas  I 


124  MARSH  ROSEMARY. 

how  much  better  she  would  know  how  to 
treat  him  if  she  could  only  see  him  again ! 
A  sense  of  relief  at  his  absence  made  her 
continually  assure  herself  of  her  great  loss, 
and,  false  even  to  herself,  she  mourned  her 
sometime  lover  diligently,  and  tried  to  think 
herself  a  broken-hearted  woman.  It  was 
thought  among  those  who  knew  Nancy  Lane 
best  that  she  would  recover  her  spirits  in 
time,  but  Jerry's  wildest  anticipations  of  a 
proper  respect  to  his  memory  were  more 
than  realized  in  the  first  two  years  after  the 
schooner  Susan  Barnes  went  to  the  bottom 
of  the  sea.  /His  wife  mourned  for  the  man 
he  ought  to  have  been,  not  for  the  real 
Jerry,  but  she  had  loved  him  enough  in  the 
beginning  to  make  her  own  love  a  precious 
possession  for  all  time  to  come.  It  did  not 
matter  much,  after  all,  what  manner  of  man 
he  was  ;  she  had  found  in  him  something  on 
which  to  spend  her  hoarded  affection. 


IV. 

NANCY  LANE  was  a  peaceable  woman  and 
a  good  neighbor,  but  she  never  had  been 
able  to  get  on  with  one  fellow  townswornan, 


MARSH  ROSEMARY.  125 

and  that  was  Mrs.  Deacon  Elton.  They 
managed  to  keep  each  other  provoked  and 
teased  from  one  year's  end  to  the  other,  and 
each  good  soul  felt  herself  under  a  moral 
microscope,  and  understood  that  she  was 
judged  by  a  not  very  lenient  criticism  and 
discussion.  Mrs.  Lane  clad  herself  in  simple 
black  after  the  news  came  of  her  husband's 
timely  death,  and  Mrs.  Elton  made  one  of 
her  farewell  pilgrimages  to  church  to  see  the 
new-made  widow  walk  up  the  aisle. 

"  She  need  n't  tell  me  she  lays  that  afflic- 
tion so  much  to  heart,"  the  deacon's  wife 
sniffed  faintly,  after  her  exhaustion  had 
been  met  by  proper  treatment  of  camphor 
and  a  glass  of  currant  wine,  at  the  parson- 
age, where  she  rested  a  while  after  service. 
"  Nancy  Floyd  knows  she 's  well  through 
with  such  a  piece  of  nonsense.  If  I  had  had 
my  health,  I  should  have  spoken  with  her 
and  urged  her  not  to  take  the  step  in  the 
first  place.  She  has  n't  spoken  six  beholden 
words  to  me  since  that  vagabond  come  to 
Walpole.  I  dare  say  she  may  have  heard 
something  I  said  at  the  time  she  married. 
I  declare  for  't,  I  never  was  so  outdone  as 
when  the  deacon  came  home  and  informed 
me  Nancy  Floyd  was  going  to  be  married. 


126  MARSH  ROSEMARY. 

She  let  herself  down  too  low  to  ever  hold 
the  place  again  that  she  used  to  hold  in 
folks'  minds.  And  it 's  my  opinion,"  said 
the  sharp-eyed  little  woman,  "  she  ain't  got 
through  with  her  pay  yet." 

But  Mrs.  Elton  did  not  half  comprehend 
the  unconscious  prophecy  with  which  her 
words  were  freighted. 

The  months  passed  by  :  summer  and  win- 
ter came  and  went,  and  even  those  few  per- 
sons who  were  misled  by  Nancy  Lane's  stern 
visage  and  forbidding  exterior  into  forget- 
ting her  kind  heart  were  at  last  won  over 
to  friendliness  by  her  renewed  devotion  to 
the  sick  and  old  people  of  the  rural  commu- 
nity. She  was  so  tender  to  little  children 
that  they  all  loved  her  dearly.  She  was 
ready  to  go  to  any  household  that  needed 
help,  and  in  spite  of  her  ceaseless  industry 
with  her  needle  she  found  many  a  chance  to 
do  good,  and  help  her  neighbors  to  lift  and 
carry  the  burdens  of  their  lives.  She  blos- 
somed out  suddenly  into  a  lovely,  painstak- 
ing eagerness  to  be  of  use ;  it  seemed  as  if 
her  affectionate  heart,  once  made  generous, 
must  go  on  spending  its  wealth  wherever  it 
could  find  an  excuse.  Even  Mrs.  Elton  her- 


MARSH  ROSEMARY.  127 

self  was  touched  by  her  old  enemy's  evident 
wish  to  be  friends,  and  said  nothing  more 
about  poor  Nancy's  looking  as  savage  as  a 
hawk.  The  only  thing  to  admit  was  the 
truth  that  her  affliction  had  proved  a  bless- 
ing to  her..  And  it  was  in  a  truly  kind  and 
compassionate  spirit  that,  after  hearing  a 
shocking  piece  of  news,  the  deacon's  hyster- 
ical wife  forbore  to  spread  it  far  and  wide 
through  the  town  first,  and  went  down  to 
the  Widow  Lane's  one  September  afternoon. 
Nancy  was  stitching  busily  upon  the  dea- 
con's new  coat,  and  looked  up  with  a  friendly 
smile  as  her  guest  came  in,  in  spite  of  an 
instinctive  shrug  as  she  had  seen  her  coming 
up  the  yard.  The  dislike  of  the  poor  souls 
for  each  other  was  deeper  than  their  phi- 
losophy could  reach. 

Mrs.  Elton  spent  some  minutes  in  the 
unnecessary  endeavor  to  regain  her  breath, 
and  to  her  surprise  found  she  must  make  a 
real  effort  before  she  could  tell  her  unwel- 
come news.  She  had  been  so  full  of  it  all 
the  way  from  home  that  she  had  rehearsed 
the  whole  interview ;  now  she  hardly  knew 
how  to  begin.  Nancy  looked  serener  than 
usual,  but  there  was  something  wistful  about 
her  face  as  she  glanced  across  the  room, 


128  MARSH  ROSEMARY. 

presently,  as  if  to  understand  the  reason  of 
the  long  pause.  The  clock  ticked  loudly ; 
the  kitten  clattered  a  spool  against  the  table- 
leg,  and  had  begun  to  snarl  the  thread 
round  her  busy  paws,  and  Nancy  looked 
down  and  saw  her;  then  the  instant  con- 
sciousness of  there  being  some  unhappy 
reason  for  Mrs.  Elton's  call  made  her  forget 
the  creature's  mischief,  and  anxiously  lay 
down  her  work  to  listen. 

"  Capt'in  Nathan  Low  was  to  our  house 
to  dinner,"  the  guest  began.  "  He  's  bar- 
gaining with  the  deacon  about  some  hay. 
He's  got  a  new  schooner,  Capt'in  Nathan 
has,  and  is  going  to  build  up  a  regular  busi- 
ness of  freighting  hay  to  Boston  by  sea. 
There 's  no  market  to  speak  of  about  here, 
unless  you  haul  it  way  over  to  Downer,  and 
you  can't  make  but  one  turn  a  day." 

"  'T  would  be  a  good  thing,"  replied 
Nancy,  trying  to  think  that  this  was  all, 
and  perhaps  the  deacon  wanted  to  hire  her 
own  field  another  year.  He  had  underpaid 
her  once,  and  they  had  not  been  on  particu- 
larly good  terms  ever  since.  She  would 
make  her  own  bargains  with  Skipper  Low, 
she  thanked  him  and  his  wife  ! 

"  He  's  been  down  to  the  provinces  these 


MARSH  ROSEMARY.  129 

two  or  three  years  back,  you  know,"  the 
whining  voice  went  on,  and  straightforward 
Ann  Lane  felt  the  old  animosity  rising 
within  her.  "  At  dinner-time  I  wa'n't  able 
to  eat  much  of  anything,  and  so  I  was  talk- 
ing with  Capt'in  Nathan,  and  asking  him 
some  questions  about  them  parts ;  and  I 
expressed  something  about  the  mercy  't  was 
his  life  should  ha'  been  spared  when  that 
schooner,  the  Susan  Barnes,  was  lost  so 
quick  after  he  sold  out  his  part  of  her.  And 
I  put  in  a  word,  bein'  's  we  were  neighbors, 
about  how  edifyin'  your  course  had  be'n 
under  affliction.  I  noticed  then  he  'd  looked 
sort  o'  queer  whilst  I  was  talkin',  but  there 
was  all  the  folks  to  the  table,  and  you  know 
he  's  a  very  cautious  man,  so  he  spoke  of 
somethin'  else.  'T  wa'n't  half  an  hour  after 
dinner,  I  was  comin'  in  with  some  plates 
and  cups,  tryin'  to  help  what  my  stren'th 
would  let  me,  and  says  he,  '  Step  out  a  little 
ways  into  the  piece  with  me,  Mis'  Elton.  I 
want  to  have  a  word  with  ye.'  I  went,  too, 
spite  o'  my  neuralgy,  for  I  saw  he  'd  got 
somethin'  on  his  mind.  *  Look  here,'  says 
he,  '  I  gathered  from  the  way  you  spoke  that 
Jerry  Lane's  wife  expects  he  's  dead.'  Cer- 
tain, says  I,  his  name  was  in  the  list  o'  the 


130  MARSH  ROSEMARY. 

Susan  Barnes's  crew,  and  we  read  it  in  the 
paper.  *  No,'  says  he  to  me,  '  he  ran  away 
the  day  they  sailed  ;  he  wa'ii't  aboard,  and 
he 's  livin'  with  another  woman  down  to 
Shediac.'  Them  was  his  very  words." 

Nancy  Lane  sank  back  in  her  chair,  and 
covered  her  horror-stricken  eyes  with  her 
hands.  "  'T  ain't  pleasant  news  to  have  to 
tell,"  Sister  Elton  went  on  mildly,  yet  with 
evident  relish  and  full  command  of  the  oc- 
casion. "  He  said  he  seen  Jerry  the  morn- 
ing he  came  away.  I  thought  you  ought  to 
know  it.  I  '11  tell  you  one  thing,  Nancy  :  I 
told  the  skipper  to  keep  still  about  it,  and 
now  I  've  told  you,  I  won't  spread  it  no  fur- 
ther to  set  folks  a-talking.  I  '11  keep  it  se- 
cret till  you  say  the  word.  There  ain't  much 
trafficking  betwixt  here  and  there,  and  he  's 
dead  to  you,  certain,  as  much  as  if  he  laid 
up  here  in  the  burying-ground." 

Nancy  had  bowed  her  head  upon  the 
table  ;  the  thin  sandy  hair  was  streaked  with 
gray.  She  did  not  answer  one  word ;  this 
was  the  hardest  blow  of  all. 

"  I  'm  much  obliged  to  you  for  being  so 
friendly,"  she  said  after  a  few  minutes,  look- 
ing straight  before  her  now  in  a  dazed  sort 
of  way,  and  lifting  the  new  coat  from  the 


MARSH  ROSEMARY.  131 

floor,  where  it  had  fallen.  "  Yes,  he  's  dead 
to  me,  —  worse  than  dead,  a  good  deal,"  and 
her  lip  quivered.  "  I  can't  seem  to  bring 
my  thoughts  to  bear.  I  've  got  so  used  to 
thinkin'  —  No,  don't  you  say  nothin'  to  the 
folks  yet.  I  'd  do  as  much  for  you."  And 
Mrs.  Elton  knew  that  the  smitten  fellow- 
creature  before  her  spoke  the  truth,  and 
forebore. 

Two  or  three  days  came  and  went,  and 
with  every  hour  the  quiet,  simple-hearted 
woman  felt  more  grieved  and  unsteady  in 
mind  and  body.  Such  a  shattering  thunder- 
bolt of  news  rarely  falls  into  a  human  life. 
She  could"  not  sleep ;  she  wandered  to  and 
fro  in  the  little  house,  and  cried  until  she 
could  cry  no  longer.  Then  a  great  rage 
spurred  and  excited  her.  She  would  go  to 
Shediac,  and  call  Jerry  Lane  to  account. 
She  would  accuse  him  face  to  face  ;  and  the 
woman  whom  he  was  deceiving,  as  perhaps 
he  had  deceived  her,  should  know  the  base- 
ness and  cowardice  of  this  miserable  man. 
So,  dressed  in  her  respectable  Sunday 
clothes,  in  the  gray  bonnet  and  shawl  that 
never  had  known  any  journeys  except  to 
meeting,  or  to  a  country  funeral  or  quiet 


132  MARSH  ROSEMARY. 

holiday-making,  Nancy  Lane  trusted  herself 
for  the  first  time  to  the  bewildering  railway, 
to  the  temptations  and  dangers  of  the  wide 
world  outside  the  bounds  of  Walpole. 

Two  or  three  aays  later  still,  the  quaint, 
thin  figure  familiar  in  Walpole  highways 
flitted  down  the  street  of  a  provincial  town. 
In  the  most  primitive  region  of  China  this 
woman  could  hardly  have  felt  a  greater 
sense  of  foreign  life  and  strangeness.  At 
another  time  her  native  good  sense  and 
shrewd  observation  would  have  delighted  in 
the  experiences  of  this  first  week  of  travel, 
but  she  was  too  sternly  angry  and  aggrieved, 
too  deeply  plunged  in  a  survey  of  her  own 
calamity,  to  take  much  notice  of  what  was 
going  on  about  her.  Later  she  condemned 
the  unworthy  folly  of  the  whole  errand,  but 
in  these  days  the  impulse  to  seek  the  culprit 
and  confront  him  was  irresistible. 

The  innkeeper's  wife,  a  kindly  creature, 
urged  this  puzzling  guest  to  wait  and  rest 
and  eat  some  supper,  but  Nancy  refused,  and 
without  asking  her  way  left  the  brightly 
lighted,  flaring  little  public  room,  where 
curious  eyes  already  offended  her,  and  went 
out  into  the  damp  twilight.  The  voices  of 
the  street  boys  sounded  outlandish,  and  she 


MARSH  ROSEMARY.  133 

felt  more  and  more  lonely.  She  longed  for 
Jerry  to  appear  for  protection's  sake  :  she 
forgot  why  she  sought  him,  and  was  eager 
to  shelter  herself  behind  the  flimsy  bulwark 
of  his  manhood.  She  rebuked  herself  pres- 
ently with  terrible  bitterness  for  a  womanish 
wonder  whether  he  would  say,  "  Why,  Nancy, 
girl !  "  and  be  glad  to  see  her.  Poor  woman, 
it  was  a  work-laden,  serious  girlhood  that 
had  been  hers,  at  any  rate.  The  power  of 
giving  her  whole  self  in  unselfish,  enthusias- 
tic, patient  devotion  had  not  belonged  to  her 
youth  only ;  it  had  sprung  fresh  and  blos- 
soming in  her  heart  as  every  new  year  came 
and  went. 

One  might  have  seen  her  stealing  through 
the  shadows,  skirting  the  edge  of  a  lumber- 
yard, stepping  among  the  refuse  of  the  har- 
bor side,  asking  a  question  timidly  now  and 
then  of  some  passer-by.  Yes,  they  knew 
Jerry  Lane,  —  his  house  was  only  a  little 
way  off  ;  and  one  curious  and  compassionate 
Scotchman,  divining  by  some  inner  sense 
the  exciting  nature  of  the  errand,  turned 
back,  and  offered  fruitlessly  to  go  with  the 
stranger.  "  You  know  the  man  ?  "  he  asked. 
"He  is  his  own  enemy,  but  doing  better 
now  that  he  is  married.  He  minds  his  work, 


134  MARSH  ROSEMARY. 

I  know  that  well ;  and  he 's  taken  a  good 
wife."  Nancy's  heart  beat  faster  with  hon- 
est pride  for  a  moment,  until  the  shadow  of 
the  ugly  truth  and  reality  made  it  sink  back 
to  heaviness,  and  the  fire  of  her  smouldering 
rage  was  again  kindled.  She  would  speak 
to  Jerry  face  to  face  before  she  slept,  and  a 
horrible  contempt  and  scorn  were  ready  for 
him,  as  with  a  glance  either  way  along  the 
road  she  entered  the  narrow  yard,  and  went 
noiselessly  toward  the  window  of  a  low, 
poor-looking  house,  from  whence  a  bright 
light  was  shining  out  into  the  night. 

Yes,  there  was  Jerry,  and  it  seemed  as  if 
she  must  faint  and  fall  at  the  sight  of  him. 
How  young  he  looked  still !  The  thought 
smote  her  like  a  blow.  They  never  were 
mates  for  each  other,  Jerry  and  she.  Her 
own  life  was  waning ;  she  was  an  old  woman. 

He  never  had  been  so  thrifty  and  re- 
spectable before  ;  the  other  woman  ought 
to  know  the  savage  truth  about  him,  for  all 
that !  But  at  that  moment  the  other  woman 
stooped  beside  the  supper  table,  and  lifted 
a  baby  from  its  cradle,  and  put  the  dear, 
live  little  thing  into  its  father's  arms.  The 
baby  was  wide-awake,  and  laughed  at  Jerry, 
who  laughed  back  again,  and  it  reached  up 


MARSH  ROSEMARY.  135 

to  catch  at  a  handful  of  the  curly  hair  which 
had  been  poor  Nancy's  delight. 

The  other  woman  stood  there  looking  at 
them,  full  of  pride  and  love.  She  was 
young,  and  trig,  and  neat.  She  looked  a 
brisk,  efficient  little  creature.  Perhaps  Jerry 
would  make  something  of  himself  now ;  he 
always  had  it  in  him.  The  tears  were  run- 
ning down  Nancy's  cheeks ;  the  rain,  too, 
had  begun  to  fall.  She  stood  there  watch- 
ing the  little  household  sit  down  to  supper, 
and  noticed  with  eager  envy  how  well  cooked 
the  food  was,  and  how  hungrily  the  master 
of  the  house  ate  what  was  put  before  him. 
All  thoughts  of  ending  the  new  wife's  sin 
and  folly  vanished  away.  She  could  not 
enter  in  and  break  another  heart ;  hers  was 
broken  already,  and  it  would  not  matter. 
And  Nancy  Lane,  a  widow  indeed,  crept 
away  again,  as  silently  as  she  had  come,  to  c 
think  what  was  best  to  be  done,  to  find  alter- 
nate woe  and  comfort  in  the  memory  of  the 
sight  she  had  seen. 

The  little  house  at  the  edge  of  the  Wai- 
pole  marshes  seemed  full  of  blessed  shelter 
and  comfort  the  evening  that  its  forsaken 
mistress  came  back  to  it  Her  strength  was 


136  MARSH  ROSEMARY. 

spent ;  she  felt  much  more  desolate  now  that 
she  had  seen  with  her  own  eyes  that  Jerry 
Lane  was  alive  than  when  she  had  counted 
him  among  the  dead.  An  uncharacteristic 
disregard  of  the  laws  of  the  land  filled  this 
good  woman's  mind.  Jerry  had  his  life  to 
live,  and  she  wished  him  no  harm.  She 
wondei-ed  often  how  the  baby  grew,  and 
fancied  again  and  again  the  changes  and 
conditions  of  the  far-away  household.  Alas ! 
she  knew  only  too  well  the  weakness  of  the 
man,  and  once  she  exclaimed,  in  a  grim  out- 
burst of  impatience,  "  I  'd  rather  others 
should  have  to  cope  with  him  than  me ! " 

But  that  evening,  when  she  came  back 
from  Shediac,  and  sat  in  the  dark  for  a 
long  time,  lest  Mrs.  Elton  should  see  the 
light  and  risk  her  life  in  the  evening  air  to 
bring  unwelcome  sympathy,  —  that  evening, 
I  say,  came  the  hardest  moment  of  all,  when 
Ann  Floyd,  tailoress,  of  so  many  virtuous, 
self-respecting  years,  whose  idol  had  turned 
to  clay,  who  was  shamed,  disgraced,  and 
wronged,  sat  down  alone  to  supper  in  the 
little  kitchen. 

She  had  put  one  cup  and  saucer  on  the 
table  and  then  stood  and  looked  at  them 
through  bitter  tears.  Somehow  a  conscious- 


MARSH  ROSEMARY.  339 

ness  of  her  solitary  age,  her  uncompanioned 
future,  rushed  through  her  mind ;  the  fail- 
ure of  her  best  earthly  hope  was  enough  to 
break  a  stronger  woman's  heart. 

Who  can  laugh  at  my  Marsh  Rosemary, 
or  who  can  cry,  for  that  matter  ?  The  gray 
primness  of  the  plant  is  made  up  from  a 
hundred  colors  if  you  look  close  enough  to 
find  them.  This  Marsh  Rosemary  stands  in 
her  own  place,  and  holds  her  dry  leaves  and 
tiny  blossoms  steadily  toward  the  same  sun 
that  the  pink  lotus  blooms  for,  and  the  white 
rose. 


A  WHITE  HERON. 


THE  woods  were  already  filled  with  shad- 
ows one  June  evening,  just  before  eight 
o'clock,  though  a  bright  sunset  still  glim- 
mered faintly  among  the  trunks  of  the  trees. 
A  little  girl  was  driving  home  her  cow,  a 
plodding,  dilatory,  provoking  creature  in 
her  behavior,  but  a  valued  companion  for  all 
that.  They  were  going  away  from  the  west- 
ern light,  and  striking  deep  into  the  dark 
woods,  but  their  feet  were  familiar  with  the 
path,  and  it  was  no  matter  whether  their 
eyes  could  see  it  or  not. 

There  was  hardly  a  night  the  summer 
through  when  the  old  cow  could  be  found 
waiting  at  the  pasture  bars ;  on  the  contrary, 
it  was  her  greatest  pleasure  to  hide  herself 
away  among  the  high  huckleberry  bushes, 
and  though  she  wore  a  loud  bell  she  had 
made  the  discovery  that  if  one  stood  per- 


A   WHITE  HERON.  139 

fectly  still  it  would  not  ring.  So  Sylvia  had 
to  hunt  for  her  until  she  found  her,  and  call 
Co' !  Co' !  with  never  an  answering  Moo, 
until  her  childish  patience  was  quite  spent. 
If  the  creature  had  not  given  good  milk  and 
plenty  of  it,  the  case  would  have  seemed 
very  different  to  her  owners.  Besides,  Syl- 
via had  all  the  time  there  was,  and  very 
little  use  to  make  of  it.  Sometimes  in  pleas- 
ant weather  it  was  a  consolation  to  look 
upon  the  cow's  pranks  as  an  intelligent  at- 
tempt to  play  hide  and  seek,  and  as  the  child 
had  no  playmates  she  lent  herself  to  this 
amusement  with  a  good  deal  of  zest.  Though 
this  chase  had  been  so  long  that  the  wary 
animal  herself  had  given  an  unusual  signal 
of  her  whereabouts,  Sylvia  had  only  laughed 
when  she  came  upon  Mistress  Moolly  at  the 
swamp-side,  and  urged  her  affectionately 
homeward  with  a  twig  of  birch  leaves.  The 
old  cow  was  not  inclined  to  wander  farther, 
she  even  turned  in  the  right  direction  for 
once  as  they  left  the  pasture,  and  stepped 
along  the  road  at  a  good  pace.  She  was 
quite  ready  to  be  milked  now,  and  seldom 
stopped  to  browse.  Sylvia  wondered  what 
her  grandmother  would  say  because  they 
were  so  late.  It  was  a  great  while  since  she 


140  A   WHITE  HERON. 

had  left  home  at  half  past  five  o'clock,  but 
everybody  knew  the  difficulty  of  making  this 
cnaiul  a  short  one.  Mrs.  Tilley  had  chased 
the  horned  torment  too  many  summer  even- 
ings herself  to  blame  any  one  else  for  lin- 
gering, and  was  only  thankful  as  she  waited 
that  she  had  Sylvia,  nowadays,  to  give  such 
valuable  assistance.  The  good  woman  sus- 
pected that  Sylvia  loitered  occasionally  on 
her  own  account ;  there  never  was  such  a 
child  for  straying  about  out-of-doors  since 
the  world  was  made !  Everybody  said  that  it 
was  a  good  change  for  a  little  maid  who  had 
tried  to  grow  for  eight  years  in  a  crowded 
manufacturing  town,  but,  as  for  Sylvia  her- 
self, it  seemed  as  if  she  never  had  been  alive 
at  all  before  she  came  to  live  at  the  farm. 
She  thought  often  with  wistful  compassion 
of  a  wretched  diy  geranium  that  belonged 
to  a  town  neighbor. 

" '  Afraid  of  folks,'  "  old  Mrs.  Tilley  said 
to  herself,  with  a  smile,  after  she  had  made 
the  unlikely  choice  of  Sylvia  from  her 
daughter's  houseful  of  children,  and  was  re- 
turning to  the  farm.  " '  Afraid  of  folks,' 
they  said !  I  guess  she  won't  be  troubled 
no  great  with  'em  up  to  the  old  place ! " 
When  they  reached  the  door  of  the  lonely 


A  WHITE  HERON.  141 

house  and  stopped  to  unlock  it,  and  the  cat 
came  to  purr  loudly,  and  rub  against  them, 
a  deserted  pussy,  indeed,  but  fat  with  young 
robins,  Sylvia  whispered  that  this  was  a 
beautiful  place  to  live  in,  and  she  never 
should  wish  to  go  home. 

The  companions  followed  the  shady  wood- 
road,  the  cow  taking  slow  steps,  and  the 
child  very  fast  ones.  The  cow  stopped  long 
at  the  brook  to  drink,  as  if  the  pasture  were 
not  half  a  swamp,  and  Sylvia  stood  still  and 
waited,  letting  her  bare  feet  cool  themselves 
in  the  shoal  water,  while  the  great  twilight 
moths  struck  softly  against  her.  She  waded 
on  through  the  brook  as  the  cow  moved 
away,  and  listened  to  the  thrushes  with  a 
heart  that  beat  fast  with  pleasure.  There 
was  a  stirring  in  the  great  boughs  overhead. 
They  were  full  of  little  birds  and  beasts  that 
seemed  to  be  wide-awake,  and  going  about 
their  world,  or  else  saying  good-night  to 
each  other  in  sleepy  twitters.  Sylvia  herself 
felt  sleepy  as  she  walked  along.  However, 
it  was  not  much  farther  to  the  house,  and 
the  air  was  soft  and  sweet.  She  was  not 
often  in  the  woods  so  late  as  this,  and  it 
made  her  feel  as  if  she  were  a  part  of  the 


142  A   WHITE  HERON. 

gray  shadows  and  the  moving  leaves.  She 
was  just  thinking  how  long  it  seemed  since 
she  first  came  to  the  farm  a  year  ago,  and 
wondering  if  everything  went  on  in  the 
noisy  town  just  the  same  as  when  she  was 
there ;  the  thought  of  the  great  red  -  faced 
boy  who  used  to  chase  and  frighten  her  made 
her  hurry  along  the  path  to  escape  from  the 
shadow  of  the  trees. 

Suddenly  this  little  woods-girl  is  horror- 
stricken  to  hear  a  clear  whistle  not  very  far 
away.  Not  a  bird's  whistle,  which  would 
have  a  sort  of  friendliness,  but  a  boy's  whis- 
tle, determined,  and  somewhat  aggressive. 
Sylvia  left  the  cow  to  whatever  sad  fate 
might  await  her,  and  stepped  discreetly  aside 
into  the  bushes,  but  she  was  just  too  late. 
The  enemy  had  discovered  her,  and  called 
out  in  a  very  cheerful  and  persuasive  tone, 
"Halloa,  little  girl,  how  far  is  it  to  the 
road  ?  "  and  trembling  Sylvia  answered  al- 
most inaudibly,  "  A  good  ways." 

She  did  not  dare  to  look  boldly  at  the  tall 
young  man,  who  carried  a  gun  over  his 
shoulder,  but  she  came  out  of  her  bush  and 
again  followed  the  cow,  while  he  walked 
alongside. 

"I  have  been  hunting  for  some  birds," 


A  WHITE  HERON.  143 

the  stranger  said  kindly,  "  and  I  have  lost 
my  way,  and  need  a  friend  very  much. 
Don't  be  afraid,"  he  added  gallantly.  "Speak 
up  and  tell  me  what  your  name  is,  and 
whether  you  think  I  can  spend  the  night  at 
your  house,  and  go  out  gunning  e^rly  in  the 
morning." 

Sylvia  was  more  alarmed  than  before. 
Would  not  her  grandmother  consider  her 
much  to  blame  ?  But  who  could  have  fore- 
seen such  an  accident  as  this  ?  It  did  not  ap- 
pear to  be  her  fault,  and  she  hung  her  head 
as  if  the  stem  of  it  were  broken,  but  man- 
aged to  answer  "  Sylvy,"  with  much  effort 
when  her  companion  again  asked  her  name. 

Mrs.  Tilley  was  standing  in  the  doorway 
when  the  trio  came  into  view.  The  cow 
gave  a  loud  inoo  by  way  of  explanation. 

"  Yes,  you'd  better  speak  up  for  yourself, 
you  old  trial !  Where  'd  she  tucked  herself 
away  this  time,  Sylvy?"  Sylvia  kept  an 
awed  silence  ;  she  knew  by  instinct  that  her 
grandmother  did  not  comprehend  the  grav- 
ity of  the  situation.  She  must  be  mistaking 
the  stranger  for  one  of  the  farmer-lads  of 
the  region. 

The  young  man  stood  his  gun  beside  the 
door,  and  dropped  a  heavy  game-bag  beside 


144  A   WHITE  HERON. 

it ;  then  he  bade  Mrs.  Tilley  good-evening, 
and  repeated  his  wayfarer's  story,  and  asked 
if  he  could  have  a  night's  lodging. 

"  Put  me  anywhere  you  like,"  he  said.  "  I 
must  be  off  early  in  the  morning,  before 
day ;  but  I  am  very  hungry,  indeed.  You 
can  give  me  some  milk  at  any  rate,  that 's 
plain." 

"  Dear  sakes,  yes,"  responded  the  hostess, 
whose  long  slumbering  hospitality  seemed  to 
be  easily  awakened.  "  You  might  fare  bet- 
ter if  you  went  out  on  the  main  road  a  mile 
or  so,  but  you  're  welcome  to  what  we  've 
got.  I  '11  milk  right  off,  and  you  make 
yourself  at  home.  You  can  sleep  on  husks 
or  feathers,"  she  proffered  graciously.  "  I 
raised  them  all  myself.  There 's  good  pas- 
turing for  geese  just  below  here  towards 
the  ma'sh.  Now  step  round  and  set  a  plate 
for  the  gentleman,  Sylvy ! "  And  Sylvia 
promptly  stepped.  She  was  glad  to  have 
something  to  do,  and  she  was  hungry  her- 
self. 

It  was  a  surprise  to  find  so  clean  and  com- 
fortable a  little  dwelling  in  this  New  Eng- 
land wilderness.  The  young  man  had  known 
the  horrors  of  its  most  primitive  housekeep- 
ing, and  the  dreary  squalor  of  that  level  of 


A  WHITE  HERON.  145 

society  which  does  not  rebel  at  the  compan- 
ionship of  hens.  This  was  the  best  thrift 
of  an  old-fashioned  farmstead,  though  on 
such  a  small  scale  that  it  seemed  like  a 
hermitage.  He  listened  eagerly  to  the  old 
woman's  quaint  talk,  he  watched  Sylvia's 
pale  face  and  shining  gray  eyes  with  ever 
growing  enthusiasm,  and  insisted  that  this 
was  the  best  supper  he  had  eaten  for  a 
month ;  then,  afterward,  the  new  -  made 
friends  sat  down  in  the  doorway  together 
while  the  moon  came  up. 

Soon  it  would  be  berry-time,  and  Sylvia 
was  a  great  help  at  picking.  The  cow  was 
a  good  milker,  though  a  plaguy  thing  to 
keep  track  of,  the  hostess  gossiped  frankly, 
adding  presently  that  she  had  buried  four 
children,  so  that  Sylvia's  mother,  and  a  son 
(who  might  be  dead)  in  California  were 
all  the  children  she  had  left.  "Dan,  my 
boy,  was  a  great  hand  to  go  gunning,"  she 
explained  sadly.  "  I  never  wanted  for 
pa'tridges  or  gray  squer'ls  while  he  was  to 
home.  He  's  been  a  great  wand'rer,  I  ex- 
pect, and  he 's  no  hand  to  write  letters. 
There,  I  don't  blame  him,  I  'd  ha'  seen  the 
world  myself  if  it  had  been  so  I  could. 

"Sylvia   takes    after   him,"   the    grand- 


146  A  WHITE  HERON. 

t 

mother  continued  affectionately,  after  a  min- 
ute's pause.  "There  ain't  a  foot  o'  ground 
she  don't  know  her  way  over,  and  the  wild 
creatur's  counts  her  one  o'  themselves. 
Squer'ls  she  '11  tame  to  come  an'  feed  right 
out  o'  her  hands,  and  all  sorts  o'  birds.  Last 
winter  she  got  the  jay-birds  to  bangeing 
here,  and  I  believe  she  'd  'a'  scanted  herself 
of  her  own  meals  to  have  plenty  to  throw 
out  amongst  'em,  if  I  had  n't  kep'  watch. 
Anything  but  crows,  I  tell  her,  I  'm  willin' 
to  help  suppo»t,  —  though  Dan  he  went  an' 
tamed  one  o'  them  that  did  seem  to  have 
reason  same  as  folks.  It  was  round  here 
a  good  spell  after  he  went  away.  Dan  an' 
his  father  they  did  n't  hitch,  —  but  he  never 
held  up  his  head  ag'in  after  Dan  had  dared 
him  an'  gone  off." 

The  guest  did  not  notice  this  hint  of  fam- 
ily sorrows  in  his  eager  interest  in  some- 
thing else. 

"  So  Sylvy  knows  all  about  birds,  does 
she  ?  "  he  exclaimed,  as  he  looked  round  at 
the  little  girl  who  sat,  very  demure  but  in- 
creasingly sleepy,  in  the  moonlight.  "  I  am 
making  a  collection  of  birds  myself.  I  have 
been  at  it  ever  since  I  was  a  boy."  (Mrs. 
Tilley  smiled.)  "  There  are  two  or  three 


A   WHITE  HER  ON.  147 

very  rare  ones  I  have  been  hunting  for  these 
five  years.  I  mean  to  get  them  on  my  own 
ground  if  they  can  be  found." 

"  Do  you  cage  'em  up  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Til- 
ley  doubtfully,  in  response  to  this  enthusias- 
tic announcement. 

"  Oh,  no,  they  're  stuffed  and  preserved, 
dozens  and  dozens  of  them,"  said  the  orni- 
thologist, "  and  I  have  shot  or  snared  every 
one  myself.  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  white 
heron  three  miles  from  here  on  Saturday, 
and  I  have  followed  it  in  this  direction. 
They  have  never  been  found  in  this  district 
at  all.  The  little  white  heron,  it  is,"  and  he 
turned  again  to  look  at  Sylvia  with  the  hope 
of  discovering  that  the  rare  bird  was  one  of 
her  acquaintances. 

But  Sylvia  was  watching  a  hop-toad  in  the 
narrow  footpath. 

"  You  would  know  the  heron  if  you  saw 
it,"  the  stranger  continued  eagerly.  "  A 
queer  tall  white  bird  with  soft  feathers  and 
long  thin  legs.  And  it  would  have  a  nest 
perhaps  in  the  top  of  a  high  tree,  made  of 
sticks,  something  like  a  hawk's  nest." 

Sylvia's  heart  gave  a  wild  beat ;  she  knew 
that  strange  white  bird,  and  had  once  stolen 
softly  near  where  it  stood  in  some  bright 


148  A   WHITE  IJKRON. 

green  swamp  grass,  away  over  at  the  other 
side  of  the  woods.  There  was  an  open  place 
where  the  sunshine  always  seemed  strangely 
yellow  and  hot,  where  tall,  nodding  rushes 
grew,  and  her  grandmother  had  warned  her 
that  she  might  sink  in  the  soft  black  mud 
underneath  and  never  be  heard  of  more. 
Not  far  beyond  were  the  salt  marshes  and 
beyond  those  was  the  sea,  the  sea  which 
Sylvia  wondered  and  dreamed  about,  but 
never  had  looked  upon,  though  its  great 
voice  could  often  be  heard  above  the  noise 
of  the  woods  on  stormy  nights. 

"  I  can't  think  of  anything  I  should  like 
so  much  as  to  find  that  heron's  nest,"  the 
handsome  stranger  was  saying.  "  I  would 
give  ten  dollars  to  anybody  who  could  show 
it  to  me,"  he  added  desperately,  "  and  I 
mean  to  spend  my  whole  vacation  hunting 
for  it  if  need  be.  Perhaps  it  was  only  mi- 
grating, or  had  been  chased  out  of  its  own 
region  by  some  bird  of  prey." 

Mrs.  Tilley  gave  amazed  attention  to  all 
this,  but  Sylvia  still  watched  the  toad,  not 
divining,  as  she  might  have  done  at  some 
calmer  time,  that  the  creature  wished  to 
get  to  its  hole  under  the  doorstep,  and  was 
much  hindered  by  the  unusual  spectators  at 


A    WHITE  EERON.  149 

that  hour  of  the  evening.  No  amount  of 
thought,  that  night,  could  decide  how  many 
wished-for  treasures  the  ten  dollars,  so 
lightly  spoken  of,  would  buy. 

The  next  day  the  young  sportsman  hov- 
ered about  the  woods,  and  Sylvia  kept  him 
company,  having  lost  her  first  fear  of  the 
friendly  lad,  who  proved  to  be  most  kind 
and  sympathetic.  He  told  her  many  things 
about  the  birds  and  what  they  knew  and 
where  they  lived  and  what  they  did  with 
themselves.  And  he  gave  her  a  jack-knife, 
which  she  thought  as  great  a  treasure  as  if 
she  were  a  desert-islander.  All  day  long  he 
did  not  once  make  her  troubled  or  afraid 
except  when  he  brought  down  some  unsus- 
pecting singing  creature  from  its  bough. 
Sylvia  would  have  liked  him  vastly  better 
without  his  gun  ;  she  could  not  understand 
why  he  killed  the  very  birds  he  seemed  to 
like  so  much.  But  as  the  day  waned,  Sylvia 
still  watched  the  young  man  with  loving  ad- 
miration. She  had  never  seen  anybody  so 
charming  and  delightful ;  the  woman's  heart, 
asleep  in  the  child,  was  vaguely  thrilled  by 
a  dream  of  love.  Some  premonition  of  that 
great  power  stirred  and  swayed  these  young 


150  A    WHITE  UERON. 

foresters  who  traversed  the  solemn  wood- 
lands with  soft-footed  silent  care.  They 
stopped  to  listen  to  a  bird's  song ;  they 
pressed  forward  again  eagerly,  parting  the 
branches,  —  speaking  to  each  other  rarely 
and  in  whispers  ;  the  young  man  going  first 
and  Sylvia  following,  fascinated,  a  few  steps 
behind,  with  her  gray  eyes  dark  with  excite- 
ment. 

She  grieved  because  the  longed-for  white 
heron  was  elusive,  but  she  did  not  lead  the 
guest,  she  only  followed,  and  there  was  no 
such  thing  as  speaking  first.  The  sound  of 
her  own  unquestioned  voice  would  have  ter- 
rified her,  —  it  was  hard  enough  to  answer 
yes  or  no  when  there  was  need  of  that.  At 
last  evening  began  to  fall,  and  they  drove 
the  cow  home  together,  and  Sylvia  smiled 
with  pleasure  when  they  came  to  the  place 
where  she  heard  the  whistle  and  was  afraid 
only  the  night  before. 


n. 

HALF  a  mile  from  home,  at  the  farther 
edge  of  the  woods,  where  the  land  was  high- 
est, a  great  pine-tree  stood,  the  last  of  its 


A    WHITE  HERON.  151 

generation.  Whether  it  was  left  for  a  boun- 
dary mark,  or  for  what  reason,  no  one  could 
say ;  the  woodchoppers  who  had  felled  its 
mates  were  dead  and  gone  long  ago,  and  a 
whole  forest  of  sturdy  trees,  pines  and  oaks 
and  maples,  had  grown  again.  But  the 
stately  head  of  this  old  pine  towered  above 
them  all  and  made  a  landmark  for  sea  and 
shore  miles  and  miles  away.  Sylvia  knew 
it  well.  She  had  always  believed  that  who- 
ever climbed  to  the  top  of  it  could  see  the 
ocean ;  and  the  little  girl  had  often  laid  her 
hand  on  the  great  rough  trunk  and  looked  up 
wistfully  at  those  dark  boughs  that  the  wind 
always  stirred,  no  matter  how  hot  and  still 
the  air  might  be  below.  Now  she  thought 
of  the  tree  with  a  new  excitement,  for  why, 
if  one  climbed  it  at  break  of  day,  could  not 
one  see  all  the  world,  and  easily  discover 
whence  the  white  heron  flew,  and  mark  the 
place,  and  find  the  hidden  nest  ? 

What  a  spirit  of  adventure,  what  wild 
ambition!  What  fancied  triumph  and  de- 
light and  glory  for  the  later  morning  when 
she  could  make  known  the  secret !  It  was 
almost  too  real  and  too  great  for  the  child- 
ish heart  to  bear. 

All   night   the  door  of  the   little  house 


152  A    WHITE  HERON. 

stood  open,  and  the  whippoorwills  came  and 
sang  upon  the  very  step.  The  young  sports- 
man and  his  old  hostess  were  sound  asleep, 
but  Sylvia's  great  design  kept  her  broad 
awake  and  watching.  She  forgot  to  think 
of  sleep.  The  short  summer  night  seemed 
as  long  as  the  winter  darkness,  and  at  last 
when  the  whippoorwills  ceased,  and  she  was 
afraid  the  morning  would  after  all  come  too 
soon,  she  stole  out  of  the  house  and  followed 
the  pasture  path  through  the  woods,  hasten- 
ing toward  the  open  ground  beyond,  listening 
with  a  sense  of  comfort  and  companionship 
to  the  drowsy  twitter  of  a  half  -  awakened 
bird,  whose  perch  she  had  jarred  in  passing. 
Alas,  if  the  great  wave  of  human  interest 
which  flooded  for  the  first  time  this  dull  lit- 
tle life  should  sweep  away  the  satisfactions 
of  an  existence  heart  to  heart  with  nature 
and  the  dumb  life  of  the  forest ! 

There  was  the  huge  tree  asleep  yet  in  the 
paling  moonlight,  and  small  and  hopeful  Syl- 
via began  with  utmost  bravery  to  mount  to 
the  top  of  it,  with  tingling,  eager  blood  cours- 
ing the  channels  of  her  whole  frame,  with 
her  bare  feet  and  fingers,  that  pinched  and 
held  like  bird's  claws  to  the  monstrous  lad- 
der reaching  up,  up,  almost  to  the  sky  itself. 


A    WHITE  HERON.  153 

First  she  must  mount  the  white  oak  tree 
that  grew  alongside,  where  she  was  almost 
lost  among  the  dark  branches  and  the  green 
leaves  heavy  and  wet  with  dew ;  a  bird  flut- 
tered off  its  nest,  and  a  red  squirrel  ran  to 
and  fro  and  scolded  pettishly  at  the  harm- 
less housebreaker.  Sylvia  felt  her  way 
easily.  She  had  often  climbed  there,  and 
knew  that  higher  still  one  of  the  oak's  up- 
per branches  chafed  against  the  pine  trunk, 
just  where  its  lower  boughs  were  set  close 
together.  There,  when  she  made  the  dan- 
gerous pass  from  one  tree  to  the  other,  the 
great  enterprise  would  really  begin. 

She  crept  out  along  the  swaying  oak  limb 
at  last,  and  took  the  daring  step  across  into 
&e  old  pine-tree.  The  way  was  harder  than 
she  thought ;  sfee-*Hist  reach  far  and  hold 
iaefc,  the  sharp  dry  twigs  caught  and  held 
her  and  scratched  her  like  angry  talons,  the 
pitch  made  her  tfarir~Hlitte  fingers  clumsy 
and  stiff  as  she  went  round  and  round  the 
tree's  great  stem,  higher  and  higher  upward.^ 
The  sparrows  and  robins  in  the  woods  be- 
low were  beginning  to  wake  and  twitter  to 
the  dawn,  yet  it  seemed  much  lighter  there 
aloft  in  the  pine-tree,  and  the  child  knew 
that  she  must  hurry  if  her  project  were  to 
be  of  any  use. 


154  A    WHITE  HKRON. 

The  tree  seemed  to  lengthen  itself  out  as 
she  went  up,  and  to  reach  farther  and  far- 
ther upward.  It  was  like  a  great  main-mast 
to  the  voyaging  earth ;  it  must  truly  have 
been  amazed  that  morning  through  all  its 
ponderous  frame  as  it  felt  this  determined 
spark  of  human  spirit  creeping  and  climb- 
ing from  higher  branch  to  branch.  Who 
knows  how  steadily  the  least  twigs  held 
themselves  to  advantage  this  light,  weak 
creature  on  her  way !  The  old  pine  must 
have  loved  his  new  dependent.  More  than 
/  all  the  hawks,  and  bats,  and  moths,  and 
even  the  sweet -voiced  thrushes,  was  the 
brave,  beating  heart  of  the  solitary  gray- 
eyed  child.  And  the  tree  stood  still  and 
held  away  the  winds  that  June  morning 
while  the  dawn  grew  bright  in  the  east. 

Sylvia's  face  was  like  a  pale  star,  if  one 
had  seen  it  from  the  ground,  when  the  last 
thorny  bough  was  past,  and  she  stood  trem- 
bling and  tired  but  wholly  triumphant,  high 
in  the  tree-top.  Yes,  there  was  the  sea  with 
the  dawning  sun  making  a  golden  dazzle 
over  it,  and  toward  that  glorious  east  flew 
two  hawks  with  slow-moving  pinions.  How 
low  they  looked  in  the  air  from  that  height 
when  before  one  had  only  seen  them  far  up, 


A    WHITE  HERON.  155 

and  dark  against  the  blue  sky.  Their  gray 
feathers  were  as  soft  as  moths  ;  they  seemed 
7>nly  a  little  way  from  the  tree,  and  Sylvia 
felt  as  if  she  too  could  go  flying  away  among 
the  clouds.  Westward,  the  woodlands  and 
farms  reached  miles  and  miles  into  the  dis- 
tance ;  here  and  there  were  church  steeples, 
and  white  villages ;  truly  it  was  a  vast  and 
awesome  world. 

The  birds  sang  louder  and  louder.  At 
last  the  sun.  came  up  bewilderingly  bright. 
Sylvia  could  see  the  white  sails  of  ships  out 
at  sea,  and  the  clouds  that  were  purple  and 
rose-colored  and  yellow  at  first  began  to  fade 
away.  Where  was  the  white  heron's  nest  in 
the  sea  of  green  branches,  and  was  this  won- 
derful sight  and  pageant  of  the  world  the 
only  reward  for  having  climbed  to  such  a 
giddy  height?  Now  look  down  again,  Syl- 
via, where  the  green  marsh  is  set  among  the 
shining  birches  and  dark  hemlocks ;  there 
where  you  saw  the  white  heron  once  you  will 
see  him  again  ;  look,  look !  a  white  spot  of 
him  like  a  single  floating  feather  comes  up 
from  the  dead  hemlock  and  grows  larger, 
and  rises,  and  comes  close  at  last,  and  goes 
by  the  landmark  pine  with  steady  sweep  of 
wing  and  outstretched  slender  neck  and 


156  A    WHITE  HEROX. 

crested  head.  And  wait !  wait !  do  not 
move  a  foot  or  a  finger,  little  girl,  do  not 
send  an  arrow  of  light  and  consciousness 
from  your  two  eager  eyes,  for  the  heron  has 
perched  on  a  pine  bough  not  far  beyond 
yours,  and  cries  back  to  his  mate  on  the 
nest,  and  plumes  his  feathers  for  the  new 
day! 

The  child  gives  a  long  sigh  a  minute 
later  when  a  company  of  shouting  cat-birds 
comes  also  to  the  tree,  and  vexed  by  their 
fluttering  and  lawlessness  the  solemn  heron 
goes  away.  She  knows  his  secret  now,  the 
wild,  light,  slender  bird  that  floats  and  wa- 
vers, and  goes  back  like  an  arrow  presently 
to  his  home  in  the  green  world  beneath. 
Then  Sylvia,  well  satisfied,  makes  her  peril- 
ous way  down  again,  not  daring  to  look  far 
below  the  branch  she  stands  on,  ready  to  cry 
sometimes  because  her  fingers  ache  and  her 
lamed  feet  slip.  Wondering  over  and  over 
again  what  the  stranger  would  say  to  her, 
and  what  he  would  think  when  she  told  him 
how  to  find  his  way  straight  to  the  heron's 
nest. 

"Sylvy,  Sylvy!"  called  the  busy  old 
grandmother  again  and  again,  but  nobody 


A    WHITE  HERON,  157 

answered,  and  the  small  husk  bed  was  empty, 
and  Sylvia  had  disappeared. 

The  guest  waked  from  a  dream,  and  re- 
membering his  day's  pleasure  hurried  to 
dress  himself  that  it  might  sooner  begin. 
He  was  sure  from  the  way  the  shy  little  girl 
looked  once  or  twice  yesterday  that  she  had 
at  least  seen  the  white  heron,  and  now  she 
must  really  be  persuaded  to  tell.  Here  she 
comes  now,  paler  than  ever,  and  her  worn 
old  frock  is  torn  and  tattered,  and  smeared 
with  pine  pitch.  The  grandmother  and  the 
sportsman  stand  in  the  door  together  and 
question  her,  and  the  splendid  moment  has 
come  to  speak  of  the  dead  hemlock -tree 
by  the  green  marsh. 

But  Sylvia  does  not  speak  after  all, 
though  the  old  grandmother  fretfully  re- 
bukes her,  and  the  young  man's  kind  ap- 
pealing eyes  are  looking  straight  in  her 
own.  He  can  make  them  rich  with  money ; 
he  has  promised  it,  and  they  are  poor  now. 
He  is  so  well  worth  making  happy,  and  he 
waits  to  hear  the  story  she  can  tell. 

No,  she  must  keep  silence !  What  is  it 
that  suddenly  forbids  her  and  makes  her 
dumb  ?  Has  she  been  nine  years  growing, 
and  now,  when  the  great  world  for  the  first 


158  A    WHITE  HERON. 

time  puts  out  a  hand  to  her,  must  she  thrust 
it  aside  for  a  bird's  sake  ?  The  murmur  of 
the  pine's  green  branches  is  in  her  ears,  she 
remembers  how  the  white  heron  came  flying 
through  the  golden  air  and  how  they  watched 
the  sea  and  the  morning  together,  and  Syl- 
via cannot  speak ;  she  cannot  tell  the  heron's 
secret  and  give  its  life  away. 

Dear  loyalty,  that  suffered  a  sharp  pang 
as  the  guest  went  away  disappointed  later  in 
the  day,  that  could  have  served  and  followed 
him  and  loved  him  as  a  dog  loves  !  Many 
a  night  Sylvia  heard  the  echo  of  his  whistle 
haunting  the  pasture  path  as  she  came  home 
with  the  loitering  cow.  She  forgot  even  her 
sorrow  at  the  sharp  report  of  his  gun  and 
the  piteous  sight  of  thrushes  and  sparrows 
dropping  silent  to  the  ground,  their  songs 
hushed  and  their  pretty  feathers  stained  and 
wet  with  blood.  Were  the  birds  better 
friends  than  their  hunter  might  have  been, 
—  who  can  tell  ?  Whatever  treasures  were 
lost  to  her,  woodlands  and  summer-time,  re- 
member !  Bring  your  gifts  and  graces  and 
tell  your  secrets  to  this  lonely  country  child ! 


LAW  LANE. 


I. 

THE  thump  of  a  flat-iron  signified  to  an 
educated  passer-by  that  this  was  Tuesday 
morning ;  yesterday  having  been  fair  and 
the  weekly  washing-day  unhindered  by  the 
weather.  It  was  undoubtedly  what  Mrs. 
Powder  pleased  herself  by  calling  a  good 
orthodox  week ;  not  one  of  the  disjointed 
and  imperfect  sections  of  time  which  a  rainy 
Monday  forced  upon  methodical  housekeep- 
ers. Mrs.  Powder  was  not  a  woman  who 
could  live  altogether  in  the  present,  and 
^/  whatever  she  did  was  done  with  a  view  to 
having  it  cleared  out  of  the  way  of  the  next 
enterprise  on  her  list.  "  I  can't  bear  to  see 
folks  do  their  work  as  if  every  piece  on  't 
was  a  tread-mill,"  she  used  to  say,  briskly. 
"  Life  means  progriss  to  me,  and  I  can't 
dwell  by  the  way  no  more  'n  sparks  can  fly 
downwards.  'T  ain't  the  way  I  'm  built,  nor 
none  of  the  Fisher  tribe." 


160  LAW  LANE. 

The  hard  white  bundles  in  the  shallow 
splint-basket  were  disappearing,  one  by  one, 
and  taking  their  places  on  the  deerepit 
clothes-horse,  well  ironed  and  precisely 
folded.  The  July  sunshine  came  in  at  one 
side  of  Mrs.  Powder's  kitchen,  and  the  cool 
northwest  breeze  blew  the  heat  out  again 
from  the  other  side.  Mrs.  Powder  grew  un- 
easy and  impatient  as  she  neared  the  end  of 
her  task,  and  the  flat-iron  moved  more  and 
more  vigorously.  She  kept  glancing  out 
through  the  doorway  and  along  the  country 
road  as  if  she  were  watching  for  somebody. 

"I  shall  just  have  to  git  ready  an'  go  an' 
rout  her  out  myself,  an'  take  my  chances," 
she  said  at  last  with  a  resentful  look  at  the 
clock,  as  if  it  were  partly  to  blame  for  the 
delay  and  had  ears  with  which  to  listen  to 
proper  rebuke.  The  round  moon-face  had 
long  ago  ceased  its  waxing  and  waning 
across  the  upper  part  of  the  old  dial,  as  if 
it  had  forgotten  its  responsibility  about  the 
movements  of  a  heavenly  body  in  its  pleased 
concern  about  housekeeping. 

"  See  here !  "  said  Mrs.  Powder,  taking 
a  last  hot  iron  from  the  fire.  "  You  ain't 
a-keepiu'  time  like  you  used  to  ;  you  're  get- 
tin'  lazy,  I  must  say.  Look  at  this  'ere  sun- 


LAW  LANE.  161 

mark  on  the  floor,  that  calls  it  full  'leven 
o'clock,  and  you  want  six  minutes  to  ten. 
I  Ve  got  to  send  word  to  the  clock-man  and 
have  your  iu'ards  all  took  apart ;  you  got 
me  to  meetin'  more  'n  half  an  hour  too  late, 
Sabbath  last." 

To  which  the  moon-face  did  not  change 
its  beaming  expression  ;  very  likely,  being  a 
moon,  it  was  not  willing  to  mind  the  ways 
of  the  sun. 

"  Lord,  what  an  old  thing  you  be  !  "  said 
Mrs.  Powder,  turning  away  with  a  chuckle. 
"  I  don't  wonder  your  sense  kind  of  fails 
you !  "  And  the  clock  clucked  at  her  by 
way  of  answer,  though  presently  it  was  go- 
ing to  strike  ten  at  any  rate. 

The  hot  iron  was  now  put  down  hurriedly, 
and  the  half-ironed  night-cap  was  left  in  a 
queer  position  on  the  ironing-board.  A 
small  figure  had  appeared  in  the  road  and 
was  coming  toward  the  house  with  a  fleet, 
barefooted  run  which  required  speedy  ac- 
tion. "  Here  you,  Joel  Smith !  "  shouted 
the  old  woman.  "  Jo — el !  "  But  the  saucy 
lad  only  doubled  his  pace  and  pretended 
not  to  see  or  hear  her.  Mrs.  Powder  could 
play  at  that  game,  too,  and  did  not  call 
again,  but  quietly  went  back  to  her  ironing 


162  LAW  LANE. 

and  tried  as  hard  as  she  could  to  be  pro- 
voked. Presently  the  boy  came  panting  up 
the  slope  of  green  turf  which  led  from  the 
road  to  the  kitchen  doorstep. 

"  I  did  n't  know  but  you  spoke  as  I  ran 
by,"  he  remarked,  in  an  amiable  tone.  Mrs. 
Powder  took  no  heed  of  him  whatever. 

"  I  ain't  in  no  hurry ;  I  kind  o'  got  run- 
ning," he  explained,  a  moment  later;  and 
then,  as  his  hostess  stepped  toward  the 
stove,  he  caught  up  the  frilled  night-cap  and 
tied  it  on  in  a  twinkling.  When  Mrs.  Pow- 
der turned  again,  the  sight  of  him  was  too 
much  for  her  gravity. 

"  Them  frills  is  real  becoming  to  ye,"  she 
announced,  shaking  with  laughter.  "  I  de- 
clare for  't  if  you  don't  favor  your  gran'nia 
Dodge's  looks.  I  should  like  to  have  yer 
folks  see  ye.  There,  take  it  off  now ;  I  'm 
most  through  my  ironin'  and  I  want  to  clear 
it  out  o'  the  way." 

Joel  was  perfectly  docile  and  laid  the 
night-cap  within  reach.  He  had  a  tempta- 
tion to  twitch  it  back  by  the  end  of  one 
string,  but  he  refrained.  "  Want  me  to  go 
drive  your  old  brown  hen-turkey  out  o'  the 
wet  grass,  Mis'  Powder  ?  She 's  tolling  her 
chicks  off  down  to'a'ds  the  swamp,"  he  of- 
fered. 


LAW  LANE.  163 

"  She  's  raised  up  families  enough  to  know   * 
how  by  this  time,"  said  Mrs.  Powder,  "  an' 
the  swamp 's  dry  as  a  bone." 

"  I  '11  split  ye  up  a  mess  o'  kindlin'-wood 
whilst  I  'm  here,  jest  as  soon  's  not,"  said 
Joel,  in  a  still  more  pleasant  tone,  after  a 
long  and  anxious  pause. 

"  There,  I  '11  get  ye  your  doughnuts, 
pretty  quick.  They  ain't  so  fresh  as  they 
was  Saturday.  I  s'pose  that 's  what  you  're 
driving  at."  The  good  soul  shook  with 
laughter.  Joel  answered  as  well  for  her 
amusement  as  the  most  famous  of  comic  ac- 
tors ;  there  was  something  in  his  appealing 
eyes,  his  thin  cheeks  and  monstrous  frec- 
kles, and  his  long  locks  of  sandy  hair,  which 
was  very  funny  to  Mrs.  Powder.  She  was 
always  interested,  too,  in  fruitless  attempts 
to  satisfy  his  appetite.  He  listened  now, 
for  the  twentieth  time,  to  her  opinion  that 
the  bottomless  pit  alone  could  be  compared 
to  the  recesses  of  his  being.  "  I  should  like 
to  be  able  to  say  that  I  had  filled  ye  up  jest 
once ! "  she  ended  her  remarks,  as  she 
brought  a  tin  pan  full  of  doughnuts  from 
her  pantry. 

"  Heard  the  news  ?  "  asked  small  Joel,  as 
he  viewed  the  provisions  with  glistening 


164  LAW  LANE. 

eyes.  He  bore  likeness  to  a  little  hungry 
woodchuck,  or  muskrat,  as  he  went  to  work 
before  the  tin  pan. 

"  What  news  ?  "  Mrs.  Powder  asked,  sus- 
piciously. "  I  ain't  seen  nobody  this  day." 

"Barnet's  folks  has  got  their  ease  in 
court." 

"  They  ain't !  "  and  while  a  solemn  silence 
fell  upon  the  kitchen,  the  belated  old  clock 
whirred  and  rumbled  and  struck  ten  with 
persistent  effort.  Mrs.  Powder  looked  round 
at  it  impatiently  ;  the  moon-face  confronted 
her  with  the  same  placid  smile. 

"  Twelve  o'clock  's  the  time  you  git  your 
dinner,  ain't  it,  Mis'  Powder  ?  "  the  boy  in- 
quired, as  if  he  had  repeated  his  news  like 
a  parrot  and  had  no  further  interest  in  its 
meaning. 

"  I  don't  plot  for  to  get  me  no  reg'lar 
dinner  this  day,"  was  the  unexpected  reply. 
"  You  can  eat  a  couple  or  three  o'  them 
nuts  and  step  along,  for  all  I  care.  An'  I 
want  you  to  go  up  Lyddy  Bangs's  lane  and 
carry  her  word  that  I  'm  goin'  out  to  pick 
me  some  blueberries.  They  '11  be  ripened 
up  elegant,  and  I  've  got  a  longin'  for  'em. 
Tell  her  I  say  't  is  our  day  —  she  '11  know  ; 
we  've  be'n  after  'arly  blueberries  together 


LAW  LANE.  165 

this  forty  years,  and  Lyddy  knows  where  to 
meet  with  me ;  there  by  them  split  rocks." 

The  ironing  was  finished  a  few  minutes 
afterward,  and  the  board  was  taken  to  its 
place  in  the  shed.  When  Mrs.  Powder  re- 
turned, Joel  had  stealthily  departed ;  the  tin 
pan  was  turned  upside  down  on  the  seat  of 
the  kitchen  chair.  "  Good  land !  "  said  the 
astonished  woman,  "  I  believe  he  '11  bu'st 
himself  to  everlastin'  bliss  one  o'  these  days. 
Them  doughnuts  would  have  lasted  me  till 
Thursday,  certain." 

"  Gimme  suthin'  to  eat,  Mis'  Powder  ?  " 
whined  Joel  at  the  window,  with  his  plain- 
tive countenance  lifted  just  above  the  sill. 
But  he  set  forth  immediately  down  the  road, 
with  bulging  pockets  and  the  speed  of  a 
light-horseman. 


II. 


Half  an  hour  later  the  little  gray  farm- 
house was  shut  and  locked,  and  its  mistress 
was  crossing  the  next  pasture  with  a  surpris- 
ingly quick  step  for  a  person  of  her  age  and 
weight.  An  old  cat  was  trotting  after  her, 
with  tail  high  in  the  air,  but  it  was  plain  to 
see  that  she  still  looked  for  danger,  having 


166  LA  W  LANE. 

just  come  down  from  the  woodpile,  where 
she  had  retreated  on  Joel's  first  approach. 
She  kept  as  close  to  Mrs.  Powder  as  was 
consistent  with  short  excursions  after  crick- 
ets or  young,  unwary  sparrows,  and  opened 
her  wide  green  eyes  fearfully  on  the  lookout 
for  that  evil  monster,  the  boy. 

There  were  two  pastures  to  cross,  and 
Mrs.  Powder  was  very  much  heated  by  the 
noonday  sun  and  entirely  out  of  breath 
when  she  approached  the  familiar  rendez- 
vous and  caught  sight  of  her  friend's  cape- 
bonnet. 

"  Ain't  there  no  justice  left  ?  "  was  her 
indignant  salutation.  "  I  s'pose  you  've 
heard  that  Crosby's  folks  have  lost  their 
case?  Poor  Mis'  Crosby!  'twill  kill  her, 
I  'm  sure.  I  've  be'n  calculatin'  to  go  ber- 
ryin'  all  the  forenoon,  but  I  could  n't  git 
word  to  you  till  Joel  came  tootin'  by.  I 
thought  likely  you  'd  expect  notice  when 
you  see  what  a  good  day  't  was." 

"  I  did,"  replied  Lyddy  Bangs,  in  a  tone 
much  more  serious  than  her  companion's. 
,  She  was  a  thin,  despairing  little  body,  with 
an  anxious  face  and  a  general  look  of  dis- 
appointment and  poverty,  though  really  the 
more  prosperous  person  of  the  two.  "  Joel 


LAW  LANE.  167 

told  me  you  said  't  was  our  day,"  she  added. 
"  I  'm  wore  out  try  in'  to  satisfy  that  boy ; 
he 's  always  beggin'  for  somethin'  to  eat 
every  time  he  comes  nigh  the  house.  I 
should  think  they'd  see  to  him  to  home; 
not  let  him  batten  on  the  neighbors  so." 

"You  ain't  been  feedin'  of  him,  too?" 
laughed  Mrs.  Powder.  "  Well,  I  declare,  I 
don't  see  whar  he  puts  it !  "  and  she  fanned 
herself  with  her  apron.  "I  always  forget 
what  a  sightly  spot  this  is." 

"  Here  's  your  pussy  -  cat,  ain't  she  ?  " 
asked  Lyddy  Bangs,  needlessly,  as  they  sat 
looking  off  over  the  valley.  Behind  them 
the  hills  rose  one  above  another,  with  their 
bare  upland  clearings  and  great  stretches  of 
pine  and  beech  forest.  Beyond  the  wide 
valley  was  another  range  of  hills,  green  and 
pleasant  in  the  clear  mid-day  light.  Some 
higher  mountains  loomed,  sterile  and  stony, 
to  northward.  They  were  on  the  women's 
right  as  they  sat  looking  westward. 

"  It  does  seem  as  if  folks  might  keep  the 
peace  when  the  Lord's  give  'em  so  pooty  a 
a  spot  to  live  in,"  said  Lyddy  Bangs,  re- 
gretfully. "  There  ain't  no  better  farms 
than  Baruet's  and  Crosby's  folks  have  got 
neither,  but  'stead  o'  neighboring  they  must 


168  LAW  LANE. 

pick  their  mean  fusses  and  fight  from  gen- 
eration to  generation.  My  grau'ma'am  used 
to  say 't  was  just  so  with  'em  when  she  was 
a  girl  —  and  she  was  one  of  the  first  settlers 
up  this  way.  She  al'ays  would  have  it  that 
Barnet's  folks  was  the  most  to  blame,  but 
there  :s  plenty  sides  with  'em,  as  you  know." 

"  There,  't  is  all  mixed  up,  so  't  is  —  a 
real  tangle,"  answered  Mrs.  Powder.  "  I  've 
been  o'  both  minds  —  I  must  say  I  used  to 
hold  for  the  Crosbys  in  the  old  folks'  time, 
but  I  've  come  round  to  see  they  ain't  per- 
fect. There !  I  'm  b'ilin'  over  with  some- 
thin'  I've  got  to  tell  somebody.  I've  kep' 
it  close  long  's  I  can." 

"  Let 's  get  right  to  pickin',  then,"  said 
Lyddy  Bangs,  "  or  we  sha'u't  budge  from 
here  the  whole  livin'  afternoon,"  and  the 
small  thin  figure  and  the  tall  stout  one 
moved  off  together  toward  their  well-known 
harvest-fields.  They  were  presently  settled 
down  within  good  hearing  distance,  and  yet 
the  discussion  was  not  begun.  The  cat 
curled  herself  for  a  nap  on  the  smooth  top 
of  a  rock. 

"  There,  I  have  to  eat  a  while  first,  like  a 
young-one,"  said  Mrs.  Powder.  "  I  always 
tell  'em  that  blueberries  is  only  fit  to  eat 


LAW  LANE.  169 

right  off  of  the  twigs.  You  want  'em  full  o' 
sun ;  let  'em  git  cold  and  they  're  only  fit  to 
cook  —  not  but  what  I  eat  'em  any  ways 
I  can  git  'em.  Ain't  they  nice  an'  spicy? 
Law,  my  poor  knees  is  so  stiff !  I  begin  to 
be  afraid,  nowadays,  every  year  o'  berryin' 
may  be  my  last.  I  don'  know  why  't  should 
be  that  my  knees  serves  me  so.  I  ain't 
rheumaticky,  nor  none  o'  my  folks  was ;  we 
go  off  with  other  complaints." 

"  The  mukis  membrane  o'  the  knees  gits 
dried  up,"  explained  Lyddy  Bangs,  "an' 
the  j'iuts  is  all  powder-posted.  So  I  've  be'n 
told,  anyways." 

"  Then  they  was  ignorant,"  retorted  her 
companion,  sharply.  "  I  know  by  the  feelin's 
I  have  "  —  and  the  two  friends  picked  in- 
dustriously and  discussed  the  vexed  points 
of  medicine  no  more. 

"  I  can't  force  them  Barnets  and  Cros- 
bys out  o'  my  mind,"  suggested  Miss  Bangs 
after  a  while,  being  eager  to  receive  the 
proffered  confidence  which  might  be  for- 
gotten. "  Think  of  'em,  without  no  other 
door-neighbors,  fightin'  for  three  ginerations 
over  the  bounds  of  a  lane  wall.  What  if 
't  was  two  foot  one  way  or  two  foot  t'other, 
let  'em  agree." 


170  LAW  LANE. 

"  But  that 's  just  what  they  could  n't," 
said  Mrs.  Powder.  "You  know  youi-df 
you  might  be  willin'  to  give  away  a  piece  o' 
land,  but  when  somebody  said  't  wa'n't  yours, 
't  was  theirs,  't  would  take  more  Christian 
grace  'n  I  've  got  to  let  'em  see  I  thought  they 
was  right.  All  the  old  Crosbys  ever  wanted, 
first,  was  for  the  Barnets  to  say  two  foot  of 
the  lane  was  theirs  by  rights,  and  then  they 
was  willin'  to  turn  it  into  the  lane  and  to 
give  that  two  foot  more  o'  the  wedth  than 
Barnets  did  —  they  wa'u't  haggling  for  no 
pay  ;  't  was  for  rights.  But  Barnet 's  folks 
said  "  — 

"Now,  don't  you  go  an'  git  all  flustered 
up  a-telliu'  that  over,  Harri't  Powder,"  said 
the  lesser  woman.  "There  ain't  be'n  no 
words  spoke  so  often  as  them  along  this 
sidelin'  hill,  not  even  the  Ten  Command- 
ments. The  only  sense  there  's  be'n  about 
it  is,  they  've  let  each  other  alone  altogether, 
and  ain't  spoke  at  all  for  six  months  to  a 
time.  I  can't  help  hoping  that  the  war  '11 
die  out  with  the  old  breed  and  they  '11  come 
to  some  sort  of  peace.  Mis'  Barnet  was  a 
Sands,  and  they  're  toppin'  sort  o'  folks  and 
she 's  got  fight  in  her.  I  think  she  's  more 
to  blame  than  Barnet,  a  good  sight ;  but 


LAW  LANE.  171 

Mis'  Crosby 's  a  downright  peace-making  lit- 
tle creatur',  and  would  have  ended  it  long 
ago  if  she  'd  be'n  able." 

"  Barnet's  stubborn,  too,  let  me  tell  you  !  " 
and  Mrs.  Powder's  voice  was  full  of  anger. 
"  'T  will  never  die  out  in  his  day,  and  he  '11 
spend  every  cent  lawing,  as  the  old  folks 
did  afore  him.  The  lawyers  must  laugh  at 
him  well,  'mongst  themselves.  One  an'  an- 
other o'  the  best  on  'em  has  counseled  them 
to  leave  it  out  to  referees,  and  tried  to  show 
'em  they  was  fools.  My  man  talked  with 
judge  himself  about  it,  once,  after  he  'd  been 
settin'  on  a  jury  and  they  was  comin'  away 
from  court.  They  could  n't  agree ;  they 
never  could  !  All  the  spare  money  o'  both 
farms  has  gone  to  pay  the  lawyers  and  carry 
on  one  fight  after  another.  Now  folks  don't 
know  it,  but  Crosby's  farm  is  all  mort- 
gaged ;  they  've  spent  even  what  Mis'  Crosby 
had  from  her  folks.  An'  there  's  worse  be- 
hind —  there  's  worse  behind,"  insisted  the 
speaker,  stoutly.  "I  went  up  there  this 
spring,  as  you  know,  when  Mis'  Crosby  was 
at  death's  door  with  lung-fever.  I  went 
through  everything  fetchin'  of  her  round, 
and  was  there  five  weeks,  till  she  pot  about. 
4 1  feel  to'a'ds  you  as  an  own  sister,'  says 


172  LAW  LANE. 

Abby  Crosby  to  me.  *  I  'm  a  neighboring 
woman  at  heart,'  says  she ;  '  and  just  you 
think  of  it,  that  my  man  had  to  leave  me 
alone,  sick  as  I  was,  while  he  went  for  you 
and  the  doctor,  not  riskin'  to  ask  Barnet's 
folks  to  send  for  help.  I  like  to  live  pleas- 
ant,' says  she  to  me,  and  bu'st  right  out 
a-cryin'.  I  knew  then  how  she  'd  felt  things 
all  these  years.  —  How  are  they  ever  goin' 
to  pay  more  court  bills  and  all  them  piles  o' 
damages,  if  the  farm 's  mortgaged  so  heavy  ?  " 
she  resumed.  "  Crosby's  farm  ain't  worth 
a  good  two  thirds  of  Barnet's.  They  've 
both  neglected  their  lands.  How  many  you 
got  so  fur,  Lyddy  ?  " 

Lyddy  proudly  displayed  her  gains  of 
blueberries  ;  the  pail  was  filling  very  fast, 
i  and  the  friends  were  at  their  usual  game  of 
rivalry.  Mrs.  Powder  had  been  the  faster 
picker  in  years  past,  and  she  now  doubled 
her  diligence. 

"  Ain't  the  sweet-fern  thick  an'  scented 
as  ever  you  see  ?  "  she  said.  "  Gimme  pas- 
tui-e-lands  rather  'n  the  best  gardins  that 
grows.  If  I  can  have  a  sweet-brier  bush 
and  sweet-fern  patch  and  some  clumps  o' 
bayberry,  you  can  take  all  the  gardin  blooms. 
Look  how  folks  toils  with  witch-grass  and 


LAW  LANE.  173 

pusley  and  gets  a  starved  lot  o'  poor  sprigs, 
slug-eat,  and  all  dyin'  together  in  their  front 
yards,  when  they  might  get  better  comfort 
in  the  first  pasture  along  the  road.  I  guess 
there 's  somethin'  wild,  that  's  never  got 
tutored  out  o'  me.  I  must  ha'  be'n  made 
o'  somethin'  counter  to  town  dust.  I  never 
could  see  why  folks  wanted  to  go  off  an' 
live  out  o'  sight  o'  the  mountings,  an'  have 
everything  on  a  level." 

"  You  said  there  was  worse  to  tell  be- 
hind," suggested  Lyddy  Bangs,  as  if  it  were 
only  common  politeness  to  show  an  appre- 
ciation of  the  friendly  offering. 

"  I  have  it  in  mind  to  get  round  to  that  in 
proper  course,"  responded  Mrs.  Powder,  a 
trifle  offended  by  the  mild  pertinacity.  "  I 
settled  it  in  my  mind  that  I  was  goin'  to  tell 
you  somethin'  for  a  kind  of  a  treat  the  day 
we  come  out  blueberryin'.  There  !  "  —  and 
Mrs.  Powder  rose  with  difficulty  from  her 
knees,  and  retreated  pompously  to  the  shade 
of  a  hemlock-tree  which  grew  over  a  shelv- 
ing rock  near  by. 

Lyddy  Bangs  could  not  resist  picking  a 
little  longer  in  an  unusually  fruitful  spot ; 
then  she  hastened  to  seat  herself  by  her 
friend.  It  was  no  common  occasion. 


174  LAW  LANE. 

Mrs.  Powder  was  very  warm  ;  and  further 
evaded  and  postponed  telling  the  secret  by 
wishing  that  she  were  as  light  on  foot  as  her 
companion,  and  deploring  her  increasing 
weight.  Then  she  demanded  a  second  sight 
of  the  blueberries,  which  were  compared  and 
decided  upon  as  to  quality  and  quantity. 
Then  the  cat,  which  had  been  left  at  some 
distance  011  her  rock,  came  trotting  toward 
her  mistress  in  a  disturbed  way,  and  after 
a  minute  of  security  in  a  comfortable  lap 
darted  away  again  in  a  strange,  excited  man- 
ner. 

"  She  's  goin'  to  have  a  fit,  I  do  believe ! " 
exclaimed  Lyddy  Bangs,  quite  disheartened, 
for  the  cat  was  Mrs.  Powder's  darling  and 
she  might  leave  everything  to  go  in  search 
of  her. 

"  She  may  have  seen  a  snake  or  some- 
thing. She  often  gets  scared  and  runs  home 
when  we  're  out  a-trarvelin',"  said  the  cat's 
owner,  complacently,  and  Lyddy 's  spirits 
rose  again. 

"  I  suppose  you  never  suspected  that 
Ezra  Barnet  and  Ruth  Crosby  cared  the 

st  thing  about  one  another  ? "  inquired 
the  keeper  of  the  secret  a  moment  later,  and 
the  listener  turned  toward  Mrs.  Powder 
with  a  startled  face. 


LAW  LANE.  175 

"Now,  Harri't  Powder,  for  mercy's  sakes 
alive  !  "  was  all  that  she  could  say ;  but  Mrs. 
Powder  was  satisfied,  and  confirmed  the 
amazing  news  by  a  most  emphatic  nod. 

"  My  lawful  sakes !  what  be  they  goin' 
to  do  about  it  ?  "  inquired  Lyddy  Bangs, 
flushing  with  excitement.  "  A  Barnet  an' 
a  Crosby  fall  in  love  !  Don't  you  rec'lect 
how  the  old  ones  was  al'ays  fightin'  and 
callin'  names  when  we  was  all  to  school  to- 
gether? Times  is  changed,  certain." 

"  Now,  say  you  hope  to  die  if  ever  you  '11 
tell  a  word  I  say,"  pursued  Mrs.  Powder. 
"  If  I  was  to  be  taken  away  to-morrow, 
you  'd  be  all  the  one  that  would  know  it  ex- 
cept Mis'  Crosby  and  Ezra  and  Ruth  them- 
selves. 'T  was  nothin'  but  her  bein'  nigh 
to  death  that  urged  her  to  tell  me  the  state 
o'  things.  I  s'pose  she  thought  I  might 
favor  'em  in  time  to  come.  Abby  Crosby 
she  says  to  me, '  Mis'  Powder,  my  poor  girl 
may  need  your  motherin'  care.'  An'  I  says, 
'  Mis'  Crosby,  she  shall  have  it ; '  and  then 
she  had  a  spasm  o'  pain,  and  we  harped  no 
more  that  day  as  I  remember." 

"  How  come  it  about  ?  I  should  n't  have 
told  anybody  that  asked  me  that  a  Barnet 
and  a  Crosby  ever  'changed  the  time  o'  day, 


176  LAW  LANE. 

much  less  kep'  company,"  protested  the  lis- 
tener. 

"  Kep'  company !  pore  young  creatur's  !  " 
said  Mrs.  Powder.  "  They  've  hid  'em  away 
in  the  swamps  an'  hollers,  and  in  the  edge  o' 
the  growth,  at  nightfall,  for  the  sake  o'  git- 
tin'  a  word ;  an'  they  've  stole  out,  shiverin', 
into  that  plaguy  lane  o'  winter  nights.  I 
tell  ye  I  've  heard  hifalutin'  folks  say  that 
love  would  still  be  lord  of  all,  but  I  never 
was  'strained  to  believe  it  till  I  see  what  that 
boy  and  girl  was  willin'  to  undergo.  All 
the  hate  of  all  their  folks  is  turned  to  love 
ill  them,  and  I  couldn't  help  a-watchiu'  of 
'em.  An'  I  ventured  to  send  Ruth  over  to 
my  house  after  my  alpaccy  aprin,  and  then 
I  made  an  arrant  out  to  the  spring-brook  to 
see  if  there  was  any  cresses  started  —  which 
I  knew  well  enough  there  was  n't  —  and  I 
spoke  right  out  bold  to  Ezra,  that  was  at 
work  on  a  piece  of  ditching  over  on  his  land. 
4  Ezra,'  says  I,  '  if  you  git  time,  just  run 
over  to  the  edge  o'  my  pasture  and  pick  me 
a  handful  o'  balm  o'  Gilead  buds.  I  want 
to  put  'em  in  half  a  pint  o'  new  rum  for 
Mis'  Crosby,  and  there  ain't  a  soul  to  send.' 
I  knew  he  'd  just  meet  her  coming  back,  if 
I  could  time  it  right  gittin'  of  Ruth  started. 


LAW  LANE.  177 

He  looked  at  me  kind  of  curi's,  and  pretty 
quick  I  see  him  leggin'  it  over  the  fields 
with  an  axe  and  a  couple  o'  ends  o'  board, 
like  he  'd  got  to  mend  a  fence.  I  had  to 
keep  her  dinner  warm  for  her  till  ha'-past 
one  o'clock.  I  don't  know  what  he  men- 
tioned to  his  folks,  but  Ruth  she  come  an' 
kissed  me  hearty  when  she  first  come  inside 
the  door.  'T  is  harder  for  Ezra ;  he  ain't 
got  nobody  to  speak  to,  and  Ruth 's  got  her 
mother  if  she  is  a  Mis'  Much-afraid." 

"  I  don't  know 's  we  can  blame  Crosby 
for  not  wantin'  to  give  his  girl  to  the  Bar- 
nets,  after  they  've  got  away  all  his  sub- 
stance, his  means,  an'  his  cattle,  like  't  was 
in  the  Book  o'  Job,"  urged  Lyddy  Bangs. 
"  Seems  as  if  they  might  call  it  square  an' 
marry  the  young  folks  off,  but  they  won't 
nohow ;  't  will  only  fan  the  flame."  Lyddy 
Bangs  was  a  sentimental  person  ;  neighbor 
Powder  had  chosen  wisely  in  gaining  a  new 
friend  to  the  cause  of  Ezra  Barnet's  ap- 
parently hopeless  affection.  Unknown  to 
herself,  however,  she  had  been  putting  the 
lover's  secret  to  great  risk  of  untimely  be- 
trayal. 

The  weather  was  most  beautiful  that  af- 
ternoon ;  there  was  an  almost  intoxicating 


178  LAW  LANE. 

freshness  and  delight  among  the  sweet  odors 
of  the  hillside  pasture,  and  the  two  elderly 
women  were  serene  at  heart  and  felt  like 
girls  again  as  they  talked  together.  They 
remembered  many  an  afternoon  like  this ; 
they  grew  more  and  more  confiding  as  they 
reviewed  the  past  and  their  life-long  friend- 
ship. A  stranger  might  have  gathered  only 
the  most  rural  and  prosaic  statements,  and 
a  tedious  succession  of  questions,  from  what 
Mrs.  Powder  and  Lyddy  Bangs  had  to  say  to 
each  other,  but  the  old  stories  of  true  love  and 
faithful  companionship  were  again  simply 
rehearsed.  Those  who  are  only  excited  by 
more  complicated  histories  too  often  forget 
that  there  are  no  new  plots  to  the  comedies 
and  tragedies  of  life.  They  are  played 
sometimes  by  country  people  in  homespun, 
sometimes  by  townsfolk  in  velvet  and  lace. 
Love  and  prosperity,  death  and  loss  and 
misfortune — the  stories  weave  themselves 
over  and  over  again,  never  mind  whether  the 
ploughman  or  the  wit  of  the  clubs  plays  the 
part  of  hero. 

The  two  homely  figures  sat  still  so  long 
that  they  seemed  to  become  permanent 
points  in  the  landscape,  and  the  sinull  birds, 
and  even  a  wary  chipmunk,  went  their  ways 


LAW  LANE.  179 

unmindful  of  Mrs.  Powder  and  Lyddy 
Bangs.  The  old  hemlock-tree,  under  which 
they  sat  discoursing,  towered  high  above  the 
young  pine-growth  which  clustered  thick  be- 
hind them  on  the  hillside.  In  the  middle 
of  a  comfortable  reflection  upon  the  Barnet 
grandfather's  foolishness  or  craftiness,  Mrs. 
Powder  gave  sudden  utterance  to  the  belief 
that  some  creature  up  in  the  tree  was  drop- 
ping pieces  of  bark  and  cones  all  over  her. 

"  A  squirrel,  most  like,"  said  Lyddy 
Bangs,  looking  up  into  the  dense  branches. 
"  The  tree  is  a-scatterin'  down,  ain't  it  ?  As 
you  was  sayin',  Grandsir  Barnet  must  have 
knowed  well  enough  what  he  was  about "  — 

"  Oh,  gorry !  oh,  git  out !  ovv  —  o  —  w !  " 
suddenly  wailed  a  voice  overhead,  and  a  des- 
perate scramble  and  rustling  startled  the 
good  women  half  out  of  their  wits.  "  Ow, 
Mis'  Powder !  "  shrieked  a  familiar  voice, 
while  both  hearts  thumped  fast,  and  Joel 
came,  half  falling,  half  climbing,  down  out 
of  the  tree.  He  bawled,  and  beat  his  head 
with  his  hands,  and  at  last  rolled  in  agony 
among  the  bayberry  and  lamb-kill.  "  Look 
out  for  'em  !  "  he  shouted.  "  Oh,  gorry  !  I 
thought 't  was  only  an  old  last-year's  hornet's 
nest  —  they  '11  sting  you,  too  !  " 


180  LA  W  LANE. 

Mrs.  Powder  untied  her  apron  and  laid 
about  her  with  sure  aim.  Only  two  hornets 
were  to  be  seen ;  but  after  these  were  beaten 
to  the  earth,  and  she  stopped  to  regain  her 
breath,  Joel  hardly  dai'ed  to  lift  his  head  or 
to  look  about  him. 

"  What  was  you  up  there  for,  anyhow  ?  " 
asked  Lyddy  Bangs,  with  severe  suspicion. 
"Harking  to  us,  I'll  be  bound!"  But 
Mrs.  Powder,  who  knew  Joel's  disposition 
best,  elbowed  her  friend  into  silence  and  be- 
gan to  inquire  about  the  condition  of  his 
wounds.  There  was  a  deep-seated  hatred 
between  Joel  and  Miss  Bangs. 

"  Oh,  dear !  they  've  bit  me  all  over," 
groaned  the  boy.  "  Ain't  you  got  soniethiu' 
you  can  rub  on,  Mis'  Powder?"  —  and  the 
rural  remedy  of  fresh  earth  was  suggested. 

"  'T  is  too  dry  here,"  said  the  adviser. 
"Just  you  step  down  to  that  ma'shy  spot 
there  by  the  brook,  dear,  and  daub  you  with 
the  wet  mud  real  good,  and  't  will  ease  you 
right  away."  Mrs.  Powder's  voice  sounded 
i/  compassionate,  but  her  spirit  and  temper  of 
mind  gave  promise  of  future  retribution. 

"  I  '11  teach  him  to  follow  us  out  eaves- 
dropping, this  fashion !  "  said  Lyddy  Bangs, 
when  the  boy  had  departed,  weeping.  "  I  'm 


LAW  LANE.  181 

more  'n  gratified  that  the  hornets  got  hold  of 
him !  I  hope  't  will  serve  him  for  a  lesson." 

"  Don't  you  r'ile  him  up  one  mite,  now," 
pleaded  Mrs.  Powder,  while  her  eyes  bore 
witness  of  hardly  controlled  anger.  "  He  's 
the  worst  tattle-tale  I  ever  see,  and  we  've 
put  ourselves  into  a  trap.  If  he  tells  his 
mother  she  '11  spread  it  all  over  town.  But 
I  should  no  more  thought  o'  his  bein'  up  in 
that  tree  than  o'  his  bein'  the  sarpent  in  the 
garden  o'  Eden.  You  leave  Joel  to  me,  and 
be  mild  with  him  's  you  can." 

The  culprit  approached,  still  lamenting. 
His  ear  and  cheek  were  hugely  swollen  al- 
ready, so  that  one  eye  was  nearly  closed. 
The  blueberry  expedition  was  relinquished, 
and  with  heavy  sighs  of  dissatisfaction 
Lyddy  Bangs  took  up  the  two  half-filled 
pails,  while  Mrs.  Powder  kindly  seized  Joel 
by  his  small,  thin  hand,  and  the  little  group 
moved  homeward  across  the  pasture. 

"  Where 's  your  hat  ?  "  asked  Lyddy, 
stopping  short,  after  they  had  walked  a  lit- 
tle distance. 

"  Hanging  on  a  limb  up  by  the  wop's 
nest,"  answered  Joel.  "  Oh,  git  me  home, 
Mis'  Powder !  " 


182  LAW  LANE. 


III. 

No  one  would  suspect,  from  the  look  of 
the  lane  itself,  that  it  had  always  been  such 
a  provoker  of  wrath,  and  even  a  famous  bat- 
tle-ground. While  petty  wars  had  raged 
between  the  men  and  women  of  the  old 
farms,  walnut-trees  had  grown  high  in  air, 
and  apple-trees  had  leaned  their  heavy 
branches  on  the  stone  walls  and,  year  after 
year,  decked  themselves  in  pink-and-white 
blossoms  to  arch  this  unlucky  by-way  for  a 
triumphal  procession  of  peace  that  never 
came.  Birds  built  their  nests  in  the  boughs 
and  pecked  the  ripe  blackberries ;  green 
brakes  and  wild  roses  and  tall  barberry- 
bushes  flourished  in  their  season  on  either 
side  the  wheel-ruts.  It  was  a  remarkably 
pleasant  country  lane,  where  children  might 
play  and  lovers  might  linger.  No  one  would 
imagine  that  this  lane  had  its  lawsuits  and 
damages,  its  annual  crop  of  briefs,  and  succes- 
sion of  surveyors  and  quarrelsome  partisans  ; 
or  that  in  every  generation  of  owners  each 
man  must  be  either  plaintiff  or  defendant. 

The  surroundings  looked  permanent 
enough.  No  one  would  suspect  that  a  cer- 


LA  W  LANE.  183 

tain  piece  of  wall  had  been  more  than  once 
thrown  clown  by  night  and  built  again,  an- 
grily, by  day ;  or  that  a  well-timbered  corn- 
house  had  been  the  cause  of  much  litigation, 
and  even  now  looked,  when  you  came  to 
know  its  story,  as  if  it  stood  on  its  long, 
straight  legs,  like  an  ungainly,  top-heavy 
beast,  all  ready  to  stalk  away  when  its  posi- 
tion became  too  dangerous.  The  Barnets 
had  built  it  beyond  their  boundary ;  it  had 
been  moved  two  or  three  times,  backward 
and  forward. 

The  Barnet  house  and  land  stood  between 
the  Crosby  farm  and  the  high-road ;  the 
Crosbys  had  never  been  able  to  reach  the 
highway  without  passing  their  enemies  under 
full  fire  of  ugly  looks  or  taunting  voices. 
The  intricacies  of  legal  complications  in  the 
matter  of  right  of  way  would  be  impossible 
to  explain.  They  had  never  been  very  clear 
to  any  impartial  investigator.  Barnets  and 
Crosbys  had  gone  to  their  graves  with  bitter 
hatred  and  sullen  desire  for  revenge  in  their 
hearts.  Perhaps  this  one  great  interest,  out- 
side the  simple  matters  of  food  and  clothing 
and  farmers'  work,  had  taken  the  place  to 
them  of  drama  and  literature  and  art.  One 
could  not  help  thinking,  as  he  looked  at  the 


184  LA  W  LANE, 

decrepit  fences  and  mossy,  warped  roofs  and 
buckling  walls,  to  how  much  better  use  so 
much  money  might  have  been  put.  The 
costs  of  court  and  the  lawyers'  fees  had 
taken  everything,  and  men  had  drudged,  in 
heat  and  frost,  and  women  had  pinched  and 
slaved  to  pay  the  lane's  bills.  Both  the 
Barnet  and  Crosby  of  the  present  time  stood 
well  enough  in  the  opinion  of  other  neigh- 
bors. They  were  hard-fisted,  honest  men ; 
the  fight  was  inherited  to  begin  with,  and 
they  were  stubborn  enough  to  hold  fast  to 
the  fight.  Law  Lane  was  as  well  known 
as  the  county  roads  in  half  a  dozen  towns. 
Perhaps  its  irreconcilable  owners  felt  a 
thrill  of  enmity  that  had  come  straight  down 
from  Scottish  border-frays,  as  they  glanced 
along  its  crooked  length.  Who  could  be- 
lieve that  the  son  and  daughter  of  the  war- 
ring households,  instead  of  being  ready  to 
lift  the  torch  in  their  turn,  had  weakly  and 
misguidedly  fallen  in  love  with  each  other  ? 
Nobody  liked  Mrs.  Barnet.  She  was  a 
cross-grained,  suspicious  soul,  who  was  a 
tyrant  and  terror  of  discomfort  in  her  own 
household  whenever  the  course  of  events  ran 
counter  to  her  preference.  Her  son  Ezra 
was  a  complete  contrast  to  her  in  disposition, 


LAW  LANE.  185 

and  to  his  narrow-minded,  prejudiced  father 
as  well.  The  elder  Ezra  was  capable  of 
better  things,  however,  and  might  have  been 
reared  to  friendliness  and  justice,  if  the 
Crosby  of  his  youthful  day  had  not  been 
specially  aggravating  and  the  annals  of  Law 
Lane  at  their  darkest  page.  If  there  had 
been  another  boy  to  match  young  Ezra,  on 
the  Crosby  farm,  the  two  might  easily  have 
fostered  their  natural  boyish  rivalries  until 
something  worse  came  into  being ;  but  when 
one's  enemy  is  only  a  sweet-faced  little  girl, 
it  is  very  hard  to  impute  to  her  all  manner 
of  discredit  and  serpent-like  power  of  evil. 
At  least,  so  Ezra  Barnet  the  younger  felt  in 
his  inmost  heart ;  and  though  he  minded  his 
mother  for  the  sake  of  peace,  and  played  his 
solitary  games  and  built  his  unapplauded 
dams  and  woodchuck  -  traps  on  his  own 
side  of  the  fences,  he  always  saw  Ruth 
Crosby  as  she  came  and  went,  and  liked  her 
better  and  better  as  years  went  by.  When 
the  tide  of  love  rose  higher  than  the  young 
people's  steady  heads,  they  soon  laid  fast 
hold  of  freedom.  With  all  their  perplexi- 
ties, life  was  by  no  means  at  its  worst,  and 
rural  diplomacy  must  bend  all  its  energies 
to  hinder  these  unexpected  lovers. 


186  LA  W  LANE. 

Ezra  Barnet  had  never  so  much  as  en- 
tered the  Crosby  house  ;  the  families  were 
severed  beyond  the  reuniting  power  of  even 
a  funeral.  E/ra  could  only  try  to  imagine 
the  room  to  which  his  Ruth  had  returned 
one  summer  evening  after  he  had  left  her, 
reluctantly,  because  the  time  drew  near  for 
his  father's  return  from  the  village.  His 
mother  had  been  in  a  peculiarly  bad  temper 
all  day,  and  he  had  been  glad  to  escape 
from  her  unwelcome  insistence  that  he  should 
marry  any  one  of  two  or  three  capable  girls, 
and  so  furnish  some  help  in  the  housekeep- 
ing. Ezra  had  often  heard  this  suggestion 
of  his  duty,  and,  tired  and  provoked  at  last, 
he  had  stolen  out  to  the  garden  and  wan- 
dered beyond  it  to  the  brook  and  out  to  the 
fields.  Somewhere,  somehow,  he  had  met 
Ruth,  and  the  lovers  bewailed  their  trials 
with  unusual  sorrow  and  impatience.  It 
seemed  very  hard  to  wait.  Young  Barnet 
was  ready  to  persuade  the  tearful  girl  that 
they  must  go  away  together  and  establish  a 
peaceful  home  of  their  own.  He  was  heartily 
ashamed  because  the  last  verdict  was  in  his 
father's  favor,  and  Ruth  forebore  to  wound 
him  with  any  glimpse  of  the  straits  to  which 
her  own  father  had  been  reduced.  She  was 


LAW   LANE.  187 

too  dutiful  to  leave  the  pinched  household, 
where  her  help  was  needed  more  than  ever ; 
she  persuaded  her  lover  that  they  were  sure 
to  be  happy  at  last  —  indeed,  were  not  they 
happy  now  ?  How  much  worse  it  would  be 
if  they  could  not  safely  seize  so  many  op- 
portunities, brief  though  they  were,  of  being 
together !  If  the  fight  had  been  less  absorb- 
ing and  the  animosity  less  bitter,  they  might- 
have  been  suspected  long  ago. 

So  Ruth  and  Ezra  parted,  with  uncounted 
kisses,  and  Ezra  went  back  to  the  dingy- 
walled  kitchen,  where  his  mother  sat  alone. 
It  was  hardly  past  twilight  out  of  doors,  but 
Mrs.  Barnet  had  lighted  a  kerosene-lamp, 
and  sat  near  the  small  open  window  mend- 
ing a  hot-looking  old  coat.  She  looked  so 
needlessly  uncomfortable  and  surly  that  her 
son  was  filled  with  pity,  as  he  stood  watch- 
ing her,  there  among  the  moths  and  beetles 
that  buffeted  the  lamp-chimney. 

"  Why  don't  you  put  down  your  sewing 
and  come  out  a  little  ways  up  the  road, 
mother,  and  get  cooled  off  ? "  he  asked, 
pleasantly  ;  but  she  only  twitched  herself  in 
her  chair  and  snapped  off  another  needleful 
of  linen  thread. 

"  I  can't  spare  no  time  to  go  gallivantin', 


188  LAW  LANK. 

like  some  folks,"  she  answered.  "  I  always 
have  had  to  work,  and  I  always  shall.  I 
see  that  Crosby  girl  mincin'  by  an  hour  ago, 
as  if  she  'd  be'ii  oft'  all  the  afternoon.  Folks 
that  think  she  's  so  amiable  about  saving 
her  mother's  strength  would  be  surprised  at 
the  way  she  dawdles  round,  I  guess  "  —  and 
Mrs.  Barnet  crushed  an  offending  beetle 
with  her  brass  thimble  in  a  fashion  that  dis- 
gusted Ezra.  Somehow,  his  mother  had  a 
vague  instinct  that  he  did  not  like  to  hear 
^/  sharp  words  about  Ruth  Crosby.  Yet  he 
rarely  had  been  betrayed  into  an  ill-judged 
defense.  He  had  left  Ruth  only  a  minute 
ago;  he  knew  exactly  what  she  had  been 
doing  all  day,  and  from  what  kind  errand 
she  had  been  returning ;  the  blood  rushed 
quickly  to  his  face,  and  he  rose  from  his  seat 
by  the  table  and  went  out  to  the  kitchen 
doorstep.  The  air  was  cool  and  sweet,  and 
a  sleepy  bird  chirped  once  or  twice  from  an 
elm-bough  overhead.  The  moon  was  near 
its  rising,  and  he  could  see  the  great  shapes 
of  the  mountains  that  lay  to  the  eastward. 
He  forgot  his  mother,  and  began  to  think 
about  Ruth  again  ;  he  wondered  if  she  were 
not  thinking  of  him,  and  meant  to  ask  her 
if  she  remembered  an  especial  feeling  of 


LAW  LANE.  189 

nearness  just  at  this  hour.  Ezra  turned  to 
look  at  the  clocks  to  mark  the  exact  time. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Barnet,  as  she  saw  him 
try  to  discover  the  hour,  "  't  is  time  that 
father  was  to  home.  I  s'pose,  bein'  mail- 
night,  everybody  was  out  to  the  post-office 
to  hear  the  news,  and  most  like  he  's  bawlin' 
himself  hoarse  about  fall  'lections  or  some- 
thing. He  ain't  got  done  braggin'  about 
our  gittin'  the  case,  neither.  There's  al- 
ways some  new  one  that  wants  to  git  the 
p'ints  right  from  headquarters.  I  didn't 
see  Crosby  go  by,  did  you  ?  " 

"  He  'd  have  had  to  foot  it  by  the  path 
'cross-lots,"  replied  Ezra,  gravely,  from  the 
doorstep.  "  He  's  sold  his  hoss." 

"  He  ain't ! "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Barnet, 
with  a  chuckle.  "  I  s'pose  they  're  proddin' 
him  for  the  money  up  to  court.  Guess  he 
won't  try  to  fight  us  again  for  one  while." 

Ezra  said  nothing ;  he  could  not  bear 
this  sort  of  thing  much  longer.  "  I  won't 
be  kept  like  a  toad  under  a  harrow,"  he 
muttered  to  himself.  "I  think  it  seems 
kind  of  hard,"  he  ventured  to  say  aloud. 
"  Now  he  's  got  to  hire  when  fall  work  comes 
on,  and  "  — 

The  hard-hearted  woman  within  had  long 


190  LAW  LANE. 

been  trying  to  provoke  her  peaceable  son 
into  an  argument,  and  now  the  occasion  had 
come.  Ezra  restrained  himself  from  speech 
with  a  desperate  e,ffort,  and  stopped  his  ears 
to  the  sound  of  his  mother's  accusing  voice. 
In  the  middle  of  her  harangue  a  wagon  was 
driven  into  the  yard,  and  his  father  left  it 
quickly  and  came  toward  the  door. 

"  Come  in  here,  you  lout !  "  he  shouted, 
angrily.  "  I  want  to  look  at  you  !  I  want 
to  see  what  such  a  mean-spirited  sneak  has 
got  to  say  for  himself."  Then  changing  his 
voice  to  a  whine,  he  begged  Ezra,  who  had 
caught  him  from  falling  as  he  stumbled  over 
the  step,  "  Come  in,  boy,  an'  tell  me  't  ain't 
true.  I  guess  they  was  only  thornin'  of  me 
up ;  you  ain't  took  a  shine  to  that  Crosby 
miss,  now,  have  you  ?  " 

"  No  son  of  mine  —  no  son  of  mine  !  " 
burst  out  the  mother,  who  had  been  startled 
by  the  sudden  entrance  of  the  news-bringer. 
Her  volubility  was  promptly  set  free,  and 
Ezra  looked  from  his  father's  face  to  his 
mother's. 

"  Father,"  said  he,  turning  away  from  the 
scold,  who  was  nearly  inarticulate  in  her  ex- 
cess of  rage  —  "  father,  I  'd  rather  talk  to 
you,  if  you  want  to  hear  what  I  've  got  to 
say.  Mother  's  got  no  reason  in  her." 


LAW  LANE.  191 

"  Ezry,"  said  the  elder  man,  "  I  see  how 
't  is.  Let  your  ma'am  talk  all  she  will. 
I  'm  broke  with  shame  of  ye  !  "  —  his  voice 
choked  weakly  in  his  throat.  "  Either  you 
tell  me  't  is  all  nonsense,  or  you  go  out  o' 
that  door  and  shut  it  after  you  for  good. 
An'  ye  're  all  the  boy  I  've  got." 

The  woman  had  stopped  at  last,  mastered 
by  the  terror  of  the  moment.  Her  hus- 
band's  face  was  gray  with  passion  ;  her  son's 
cheeks  were  flushed  and  his  eyes  were  full 
of  tears.  Mrs.  Barnet's  tongue  for  once 
had  lost  its  cunning. 

The  two  men  looked  at  each  other  as  long 
as  they  could ;  the  younger  man's  eyes  fell 
first.  "  I  wish  you  would  n't  be  hasty,"  he 
said  ;  "  to-morrow  "  — 

"  You  've  heard,"  was  the  only  answer  ; 
and  in  a  moment  more  Ezra  Barnet  reached 
to  the  table  and  took  his  old  straw  hat  which 
lay  there. 

"  Good-by,  father ! "  he  said,  steadily. 
"  I  think  you  're  wrong,  sir ;  but  I  never 
meant  to  carry  on  that  old  fight  and  live  like 
the  heathen."  And  then,  young  and  strong 
and  angry,  he  left  the  kitchen. 

"  He  might  have  took  some  notice  o'  me, 
if  he  's  goin'  for  good,"  said  the  mother 


192  LAW  LANE. 

spitefully ;  but  her  son  did  not  hear  this 
taunt,  and  the  father  only  tottered  where  he 
stood.  The  moths  struck  against  his  face  as 
if  it  were  a  piece  of  wood ;  he  sank  feebly 
into  a  chair,  muttering,  and  trying  to  fortify 
himself  in  his  spent  anger. 

Ezra  went  out,  dazed  and  giddy.  But  he 
found  the  young  horse  wandering  about  the 
yard,  eager  for  his  supper  and  fretful  at  the 
strange  delay.  He  unharnessed  the  creature 
and  backed  the  wagon  under  the  shed ;  then 
he  turned  and  looked  at  the  house  —  should 
he  go  in  ?  No !  The  fighting  instinct, 
which  had  kept  firm  grasp  on  father  and 
grandfather,  took  possession  of  Ezra  now. 
He  crossed  the  yard  and  went  out  at  the  gate, 
and  down  the  lane's  end  to  the  main  road. 
The  father  and  mother  listened  to  his  foot- 
steps, and  the  man  gave  a  heavy  groan. 

"Let  him  go — let  him  go!  'twill  teach 
him  a  lesson !  "  said  Mrs.  Barnet,  with  some- 
thing of  her  usual  spirit.  She  could  not  say 
more,  though  she  tried  her  best ;  the  occa- 
sion was  far  too  great. 

How  many  times  that  summer  Mrs.  Pow- 
der attempted  to  wreak  vengeance  upon 
Joel,  the  tattle-tale ;  into  what  depths  of  in- 


LAW  LANE.  193 

termittent  remorse  the  mischief-making  boy 
was  resolutely  plunged,  who  shall  describe  ? 
No  more  luncheons  of  generous  provision  ; 
no  more  jovial  skirmishing  at  the  kitchen 
windows,  or  liberal  payment  for  easy  er- 
rands. Whenever  Mrs.  Powder  saw  Lyddy 
Bangs,  or  any  other  intimate  and  sympa- 
thetic friend,  she  bewailed  her  careless  con- 
fidences under  the  hemlock-tree  and  detailed 
her  anxious  attentions  to  the  hornet-stung 
eavesdropper. 

"  I  went  right  home,"  she  would  say,  sor- 
rowfully ;  "  I  filled  him  plumb-full  with  as 
good  a  supper  as  I  could  gather  up,  and  I 
took  all  the  fire  out  o'  them  hornit-stings 
with  the  best  o'  remedies.  '  Joel,  dear,' 
says  I,  'you  won't  lose  by  it  if  you  keep 
your  mouth  shut  about  them  words  I  spoke 
to  Lyddy  Bangs,'  and  he  was  that  pious  I 
might  ha'  known  he  meant  mischief.  They 
ain't  boys  nor  men,  they're  divils,  when 
they  come  to  that  size,  and  so  you  mark  my 
words!  But  his  mother  never  could  keep 
nothing  to  herself,  and  I  knew  it  from  past 
sorrers  ;  and  I  never  slept  a  wink  that  night 
—  sure  's  you  live  —  till  the  roosters  crowed 
for  day." 
"  Perhaps  't  won't  do  nothin'  but  good  !  " 


194  LA  W  LANE. 

Lyddy  Bangs  would  say,  consolingly. 
"  Perhaps  the  young  folks  '11  git  each  other 
a  sight  the  sooner.  They  'd  had  to  kep'  it 
to  theirselves  till  they  was  gray-headed,  'less 
somebody  let  the  cat  out  o'  the  bag." 

"  Don't  you  rec'lect  how  my  cat  acted 
that  day !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Powder,  excit- 
edly. "  How  she  was  good  as  took  with  a 
fit !  She  knowed  well  enough  what  was 
brewin' ;  I  only  wish  we  'd  had  half  of  her 


IV. 


The  day  before  Christmas  all  the  long 
valley  was  white  with  deep,  new-fallen  snow. 
The  road  which  led  up  from  the  neighboring 
village  and  the  railroad  station  stretched 
along  the  western  slope  —  a  mere  trail,  un- 
trodden and  unbroken.  The  storm  had  just 
ceased  ;  the  high  mountain-peaks  were  clear 
and  keen  and  rose-tinted  with  the  waning 
light ;  the  hills  were  no  longer  green  with 
their  covering  of  pines  and  maples  and 
beeches,  but  gray  with  bare  branches,  and  a 
cold,  dense  color,  almost  black,  where  the 
evergreens  grew  thickest.  On  the  other 
side  of  the  valley  the  farmsteads  were 


LAW  LANE.  195 

mapped  out  as  if  in  etching  or  pen-drawing ; 
the  far-away  orchards  were  drawn  with  a  cu- 
rious exactness  and  regularity,  the  crooked 
boughs  of  the  apple-trees  and  the  longer 
lines  of  the  walnuts  and  ashes  and  elms  came 
out  against  the  snow  with  clear  beauty. 
The  fences  and  walls  were  buried  in  snow ; 
the  farm-houses  and  barns  were  petty  shapes 
in  their  right-angled  unlikeness  to  natural 
growths.  You  were  half  amused,  half 
shocked,  as  the  thought  came  to  you  of  in- 
different creatures  called  men  and  women, 
who  busied  themselves  within  those  narrow 
walls,  under  so  vast  a  sky,  and  fancied  the 
whole  importance  of  the  universe  was  belit- 
tled by  that  of  their  few  pent  acres.  What 
a  limitless  world  lay  outside  those  play- 
thing-farms, yet  what  beginnings  of  immor- 
tal things  the  small  gray  houses  had  known ! 

The  day  before  Christmas  !  —  a  festival 
which  seemed  in  that  neighborhood  to  be  of 
modern  origin.  The  observance  of  it  was 
hardly  popular  yet  among  the  elder  people, 
but  Christmas  had  been  appropriated,  never- 
theless, as  if  everybody  had  felt  the  lack  of 
it.  New  Year's  Day  never  was  sufficient 
for  New  England,  even  in  its  least  mirthful 


190  LA  W  LANE. 

decades.  For  those  persons  who  took  true 
joy  in  life,  something  deeper  was  needed 
than  the  spread-eagle  self-congratulations  of 
the  Fourth  of  July,  or  the  family  reunions 
of  Thanksgiving  Day.  There  were  no  bells 
ringing  which  the  country-folks  in  Law  Lane 
might  listen  for  on  Christmas  Eve ;  but 
something  more  than  the  joy  that  is  felt  in 
the  poorest  dwelling  when  a  little  child,  with 
all  its  possibilities,  is  born ;  something  hap- 
pier still  came  through  that  snowy  valley 
with  the  thought  of  a  Christmas-Child  who 
"was  the  bringer-in  and  founder  of  the 
reign  of  the  higher  life."  This  was  the 
greater  Thanksgiving  Day,  when  the  whole 
of  Christendom  is  called  to  praise  and  prny 
and  hear  the  good-tidings,  and  every  heart 
catches  something  of  the  joyful  inspirations 
of  good-will  to  men. 

Ezra  Barnet  sat  on  a  fallen  tree  from 
which  he  had  brushed  the  powdery  snow.  It 
was  hard  work  wading  through  the  drifts, 
and  he  had  made  good  headway  up  the  long 
hill  before  he  stopped  to  rest.  Across  the 
valley  in  the  fading  daylight  he  saw  the  two 
farms,  and  could  even  trace  the  course  of  Law 
Lane  itself,  marked  by  the  well-known  trees. 


LAW  LANE.  197 

How  small  his  own  great  nut-tree  looked  at 
this  distance !  The  two  houses,  with  their 
larger  and  smaller  out-buildings  and  snow- 
topped  woodpiles,  looked  as  if  they  had  crept 
near  together  for  protection  and  companion- 
ship. There  were  no  other  houses  within  a 
wide  space.  Ezra  knew  how  remote  the 
homes  really  were  from  each  other,  judged 
by  any  existing  sympathy  and  interest.  He 
thought  of  his  bare,  unnourished  boyhood 
with  something  like  resentment;  then  he 
remembered  how  small  had  been  his  par- 
ents' experience,  what  poor  ambition  had 
been  fostered  in  them  by  their  lives ;  even 
his  mother's  impatience  with  the  efforts  he 
had  made  to  bring  a  little  more  comfort 
and  pleasantness  to  the  old  farm-house  was 
thought  of  with  pity  for  her  innate  lack  of 
pleasure  in  pleasant  things.  Ezra  himself 
was  made  up  of  inadequacies,  being  born 
and  bred  of  the  Barnets.  He  was  at  work 
on  the  railroad  now,  with  small  pay ;  but  he 
had  always  known  that  there  could  be  some- 
thing better  than  the  life  in  their  farm- 
house, while  his  mother  did  not.  A  different 
feeling  came  over  him  as  he  thought  whom 
the  other  farm  -  house  sheltered ;  he  had 
looked  for  that  first,  to  see  if  it  were  stand- 


198  LAW  LANE. 

ing  safe.  Ruth's  last  letter  had  come  only 
tlif  day  before.  This  Christmas  holiday 
was  to  be  a  surprise  to  her.  lie  wondered 
whether  Ruth's  father  would  let  him  in. 

Never  mind !  he  could  sleep  in  the  barn 
among  the  hay  ;  and  Ezra  dropped  into  the 
snow  again  from  the  old  tree-trunk  and  went 
his  way.  There  was  a  small  house  just  past 
a  bend  in  the  road,  and  he  quickened  his 
steps  toward  it.  Alas  !  there  was  no  smoke 
in  Mrs.  Powder's  chimney.  She  was  away 
on  one  of  her  visiting  tours  ;  nursing  some 
sick  person,  perhaps.  She  would  have 
housed  him  for  the  night  most  gladly  ;  now 
he  must  take  his  chances  in  Law  Lane. 

The  darkness  was  already  beginning  to 
fall ;  there  was  a  curious  brownness  in  the 
air,  like  summer  twilight ;  the  cold  air  became 
sharper,  and  the  young  man  shivered  a  little 
as  he  walked.  He  could  not  follow  the  left- 
hand  road,  where  it  led  among  hospitable 
neighbors,  but  turned  bravely  off  toward  his 
old  home  —  a  long,  lonely  walk  at  any  time 
of  the  year,  among  woods  and  thickets  all 
well  known  to  him,  and  as  familiar  as  they 
were  to  the  wild  creatures  that  haunted 
them.  Yet  Ezra  Barnet  did  not  find  it  easy 
to  whistle  as  he  went  along. 


LAW  LANE.  199 

Suddenly,  from  behind  a  scrub-oak  that 
was  heavily  laden  with  dead  leaves  and 
snow,  leaped  a  small  figure,  and  Ezra  was 
for  the  moment  much  startled.  The  boy 
carried  a  rabbit-trap  with  unusual  care,  and 
placed  it  on  the  snow-drift  before  which  he 
stood  waist-deep  already.  "  Gorry,  Ezry ! 
you  most  scared  me  to  pieces  !  "  said  Joel, 
in  a  perfectly  calm  tone.  "  Wish  you  Merry 
Christmas  !  Folks  '11  be  lookin'  for  you  ; 
they  did  n't  s'pose  you  'd  git  home  before 
to-morrow,  though." 

"  Looking  for  me  ?  "  repeated  the  young 
man,  with  surprise.  "  I  did  n't  send  no 
word  "  — 

"  Ain't  you  heard  nothin'  'bout  your 
ma'am's  being  took  up  for  dead  ?  " 

"No,  I  ain't;  and  you  ain't  foolin'  me 
with  your  stories,  Joel  Smith  ?  You  need 
n't  play  off  any  of  your  mischief  onto  me." 

"  What  you  gittin'  mad  with  me  about  ?  " 
inquired  Joel,  with  a  plaintive  tone  in  his 
voice.  "  She  got  a  fall  out  in  the  barn  this 
mornin',  an'  it  liked  to  killed  her.  Most  folks 
ain't  heard  nothin'  'bout  it  'cause  its  been 
snowin'  so.  They  come  for  Mis'  Powder 
and  she  called  out  to  our  folks,  as  they 
brought  her  round  by  the  way  of  Asa  Pack- 


200  LAW  LANE. 

er's  store  to  git  some  opodildack  or  some- 
thin'." 

Ezra  asked  no  more  questions,  but  strode 
past  the  boy,  who  looked  after  him  a  mo- 
ment, and  then  lifted  the  heavy  box-trap  and 
started  homeward.  The  imprisoned  rabbit 
had  been  snowed  up  since  the  day  before  at 
least,  and  Joel  felt  humane  anxieties,  else  he 
would  have  followed  Ezra  at  a  proper  dis- 
tance and  learned  something  of  his  recep- 
tion. 

Mrs.  Powder  was  reigning  triumphant  in 
the  Barnet  house,  being  nurse,  housekeeper, 
and  spiritual  adviser  all  in  one.  She  had 
been  longing  for  an  excuse  to  spend  at  least 
half  a  day  under  that  cheerless  roof  for 
many  months,  but  occasion  had  not  offered. 
She  found  the  responsibility  of  the  parted 
lovers  weighing  more  and  more  heavily  on 
her  mind,  and  had  set  her  strong  will  at 
work  to  find  some  way  of  reuniting  them, 
and  even  to  restore  a  long-banished  peace  to 
the  farms.  She  would  not  like  to  confess 
that  a  mild  satisfaction  caused  her  heart  to 
feel  warm  and  buoyant  when  an  urgent  sum- 
mons had  come  at  last ;  but  such  was  the 
simple  truth.  A  man  who  had  been  felling 


LA  W  LANE.  201 

trees  on  the  farm  brought  the  news,  melan- 
choly to  hear  under  other  circumstances,  that 
Mrs.  Barnet  had  been  hunting  eggs  in  a 
stray  nest  in  the  hay-mow,  and  had  slipped 
to  the  floor  and  been  taken  up  insensible. 
Bones  were  undoubtedly  broken  ;  she  was  a 
heavy  woman,  and  had  hardly  recovered  her 
senses.  The  doctor  must  be  found  as  soon 
as  possible.  Mrs.  Powder  hastily  put  her 
house  to  rights,  and,  with  a  good  round 
bundle  of  what  she  called  her  needments, 
set  forth  on  the  welcome  enterprise.  On  the 
way  she  could  hardly  keep  herself  from  un- 
due cheerfulness,  and  if  ever  there  was  likely 
to  be  a  reassuring  presence  in  a  sick-room  it 
was  Harriet  Powder's  that  December  day. 

She  entered  the  gloomy  kitchen  looking 
like  a  two-footed  snow-drift,  her  big  round 
shoulders  were  so  heaped  with  the  damp 
white  flakes.  Old  Ezra  Barnet  sat  by  the 
stove  in  utter  despair,  and  waved  a  limp 
hand  warningly  toward  the  bedroom  door. 

"  She 's  layin'  in  a  sog,"  he  said,  hope- 
lessly. "  I  ought  to  thought  to  send  word 
to  pore  Ezry  —  all  the  boy  she  ever  had." 

Mrs.  Powder  calmly  removed  her  snowy 
outer  garments,  and  tried  to  warm  her  hands 
over  the  fire. 


202  LAW  LANE. 

"  Put  in  a  couple  o'  sticks  of  good  d  r y 
wood,"  she  suggested,  in  a  soothing  voirr; 
and  the  fanner  felt  his  spirits  brighten,  he 
knew  not  why.  Then  the  whole-souled, 
hearty  woman  walked  into  the  bedroom. 

"All  I  could  see,"  she  related  afterward, 
"  was  the  end  of  Jane  Barnet's  nose,  and  I 
was  just  as  sure  then  as  I  be  now  that  she 
was  likely  to  continner ;  but  I  set  down  side 
of  the  bed  and  got  holt  of  her  hand,  and  she 
groaned  two  or  three  times  real  desperate. 
I  wished  the  doctor  was  there,  to  see  if  any- 
thing really  ailed  her  ;  but  I  someways 
knowed  there  wa'n't,  'less  't  was  gittin'  over 
such  a  jounce.  I  spoke  to  her,  but  she  never 
said  nothin',  and  I  went  back  out  into  the 
kitchen.  '  She 's  a  very  sick  woman,'  says 
I,  loud  enough  for  her  to  hear  me  ;  I  knew 
't  would  please  her.  There  was  a  good  deal 
to  do,  and  I  put  on  my  aprin  and  took  right 
holt  and  begun  to  lay  about  me  and  git 
dinner ;  the  men-folks  was  wiltin'  for  want 
o'  somethin',  it  being  nigh  three  o'clock. 
An'  then  I  got  Jane  to  feel  more  comfort- 
able with  ondressin'  of  her,  for  all  she  'd 
hardly  let  me  touch  of  her  —  poor  creatur', 
I  expect  she  did  feel  sore  !  —  and  then  day- 
light was  failin'  and  I  felt  kind  o'  spent,  so 


LA  W  LANE.  203 

I  set  me  down  in  a  cheer  by  the  bed-head 
and  was  speechless,  too.  I  knew  if  she  was 
able  to  speak  she  could  n't  hold  in  no  great 
spell  longer. 

"After  a  while  she  stirred  a  little  and 
groaned,  and  then  says  she,  '  Ain't  the  doc- 
tor comin'  ? '  And  I  peaced  her  up  well  's 
I  could.  'Be  I  very  bad  off,  Harri't?' 
says  she. 

"  '  We  '11  hope  for  the  best,  Jane,'  says  I ; 
and  that  minute  the  notion  come  to  me  how 
I  'd  work  her  round,  an'  I  like  to  faughed 
right  out,  but  I  did  n't. 

"  'If  I  should  lose  me  again,  you  must  see 
to  sendin'  for  my  son,'  says  she  ;  '  his  father 's 
got  no  head.' 

"  '  I  will,'  says  I,  real  solemn.  '  An'  you 
can  trust  me  with  anything  you  feel  to  say, 
sister  Barnet.' 

"  She  kind  of  opened  her  eye  that  was 
next  to  me  and  surveyed  my  countenance 
sharp,  but  I  looked  serious,  and  she  groaned 
real  honest.  '  Be  I  like  old  Mis'  Topliff  ? ' 
she  whispered,  and  I  kind  o'  nodded  an'  put 
my  hand  up  to  my  eyes.  She  was  like  her, 
too  ;  some  like  her,  but  not  nigh  so  bad,  for 
Mis'  Topliff  was  hurt  so  fallin'  down  the 
sullar-stairs  that  she  never  got  over  it  an' 
died  the  day  after. 


204  LAW  LANE. 

"  *  Oh,  my  sakes  ! '  she  bu'st  out  whinin', 
*  I  can't  be  took  away  now.  I  ain't  a-goin' 
to  die  right  off,  be  I,  Mis'  Powder  ?  ' 

"  *  I  ain't  the  one  to  give  ye  hope.  In  the 
midst  of  life  we  are  in  death.  We  ain't 
sure  of  the  next  minute,  none  of  us,'  says  I, 
mean  in'  it  general,  but  discoursin'  away  like 
an  old  book  o'  sermons. 

"  '  I  do  feel  kind  o'  failin',  now,'  says  she. 
'  Oh,  can't  you  do  nothin'  ? '  —  and  I  come 
over  an'  set  on  the  foot  o'  the  bed  an'  looked 
right  at  her.  I  knew  she  was  a  dreadful 
notional  woman,  and  always  made  a  fuss 
when  anything  was  the  matter  with  her ; 
could  n't  bear  no  kind  o'  pain. 

"  '  Sister  Barnet,'  says  I,  '  don't  you  bear 
nothin'  on  your  mind  you  'd  like  to  see 
righted  before  you  go  ?  I  know  you  ain't 
been  at  peace  with  Crosby's  folks,  and 
't  ain't  none  o'  my  business,  but  I  should  n't 
want  to  be  called  away  with  hard  feelin's  in 
my  heart.  You  must  overlook  my  speaking 
right  out,  but  I  sliould  want  to  be  so  used 
myself.' 

"  Poor  old  creatur'  !  She  had  an  awful 
fight  of  it,  but  she  beat  her  temper  for  once 
an'  give  in.  4I  do  forgive  all  them  Cros- 
bys,' says  she,  an'  rolled  up  her  eyes.  I 


LAW  LANE.  205 

says  to  myself  that  wa'n't  all  I  wanted,  but 
I  let  her  alone  a  spell,  and  set  there  watchin' 
as  if  I  expected  her  to  breathe  her  last  any 
minute. 

"  She  asked  for  Barnet,  and  I  said  he  was 
anxious  and  out  watchin'  for  the  doctor,  now 
the  snow'd  stopped.  'I  wish  I  could  see 
Ezra,'  says  she.  *  I  'm  all  done  with  the 
lane  now,  and  I  'd  keep  the  peace  if  I  was 
goin'  to  live.'  Her  voice  got  weak,  and  I 
did  n't  know  but  she  was  worse  off  than  I 
s'posed.  I  was  scared  for  a  minute,  and 
then  I  took  a  grain  o'  hope.  I  'd  watched 
by  too  many  dyin'-beds  not  to  know  the  dif- 
ference. 

"  *  Don't  ye  let  Barnet  git  old  Nevins  to 
make  my  coffin,  will  ye,  Mis'  Powder  ? '  says 
she  once. 

" '  He  's  called  a  good  workman,  ain't 
he  ?  '  says  I,  soothin'  as  I  could.  When  it 
come  to  her  givin'  funeral  orders,  'twas 
more  'n  I  could  do  to  hold  in. 

"  '  I  ain't  goin'  snappin'  through  torment 
in  a  hemlock  coffin,  to  please  that  old 
cheat  I  '  says  she,  same  's  if  she  was  well,  an' 
ris'  right  up  in  bed  ;  and  then  her  bruises 
pained  her  an'  she  dropped  back  on  the  pil- 
low. 


206  LAW  LANE. 

"  '  Oh,  I  'm  a-goin'  now  ! '  says  she. 
'  I  've  been  an  awful  hard  woman.  'T  was 
I  put  Barnet  up  to  the  worst  on 't.  I  'm 
willin'  Ezra  should  marry  Ruthy  Crosby ; 
she  's  a  nice,  pooty  gal,  and  I  never  owned 
it  till  now  I  'm  on  my  dyin'-bed  —  Oh,  I  'm 
'  a-goin',  I  'm  a-goin' !  —  Ezra  can  marry  her, 
and  the  two  farms  together  '11  make  the  best 
farm  in  town.  Barnet  ain't  got  no  fight 
left ;  he  's  like  an  old  sheep  since  we  drove 
off  Ezra.'  And  then  she  'd  screech ;  you 
never  saw  no  such  a  fit  of  narves.  And  the 
end  was  I  had  to  send  to  Crosby's,  in  all  the 
snow,  for  them  to  come  over. 

"  An;  Barnet  was  got  in  to  hold  her  hand 
and  hear  last  words  enough  to  make  a 
Fourth  o'  July  speech  ;  and  I  was  sent  out 
to  the  door  to  hurry  up  the  Crosbys,  and 
who  should  come  right  out  o'  the  dark  but 
Ezra.  I  declare,  when  I  see  him  you  could 
a-knocked  me  down  with  a  feather.  But  I 
got  him  by  the  sleeve  —  '  You  hide  away  a 
spell,'  says  I,  '  till  I  set  the  little  lamp  in 
this  winder  ;  an'  don't  you  make  the  best  o' 
your  ma's  condition  ;  'pear  just  as  consarned 
about  her  as  you  can.  I  '11  let  ye  know 
why,  soon  's  we  can  talk '  —  and  I  shoved 
him  right  out  an'  shut  the  door. 


LAW  LANE. 


207 


"  The  groans  was  goin'  on,  and  in  come 
Crosby  and  Ruth,  lookin'  scared  about  to 
death  themselves.  Neither  on  'em  had  ever 
been  in  that  house  before,  as  I  know  of. 
She  called  'em  into  the  bedroom  and  said 
she'd  had  hard  feelin's  towards  them  and 
wanted  to  make  peace  before  she  died,  and 
both  on  'em  shook  hands  with  her. 

"  '  Don't  you  want  to  tell  Ruth  what  you 
said  to  me  about  her  and  Ezry?'  says  I, 
whisperin'  over  the  bed.  '  'Live  or  dead, 
you  know  't  is  right  and  best.' 

" '  There  ain't  no  half  way  'bout  me,'  she 
says,  and  so  there  wa'n't.  '  Ruth,'  says  she, 
out  loud,  '  I  want  you  to  tell  pore  Ezra  that 
I  gave  ye  both  my  blessin','  and  I  made  two 
steps  acrost  that  kitchen  and  set  the  lamp  in 
the  window,  and  in  comes  Ezra  —  pore  boy, 
he  didn't  know  what  was  brewin',  and 
thought  his  mother  was  dyin'  certain  when 
he  saw  the  Crosbys  goin'  in. 

"  He  went  an'  stood  beside  the  bed,  an' 
his  father  clutched  right  holt  of  him.  Thinks 
I  to  myself,  if  you  make  as  edifyin'  an  end 
when  your  time  really  does  come,  you  may 
well  be  thankful,  Jane  Barnet ! 

"  They  was  all  a-weepiu',  an'  I  was 
weepiu'  myself,  if  you'll  believe  it,  I'd  got 


208  LA  W  LANE. 

a-goin'  so.  You  ought  to  seen  her  take  holt 
o'  Ruth's  hand  :uf  Il/.ia's  an'  put  'em  to- 
gether. TJien  I  'd  got  all  I  wanted,  I  tell 
you.  An'  after  she'd  screeched  two  or 
three  times  more  she  begun  to  git  tired  ;  the 
poor  old  creatur'  was  shook  up  dreadful, 
and  I  felt  for  her  consid'able,  though  you 
may  not  think  it ;  so  I  beckoned  'em  out 
into  the  kitchen  an'  went  in  an'  set  with  her 
alone.  She  dropped  off  into  a  good  easy 
sleep,  an'  1  told  the  folks  her  symptoms  was 
more  encouragin'. 

44 1  tell  you,  if  ever  I  took  handsome  care 
o'  any  sick  person  't  was  Jane  Barnet,  before 
she  got  about  again  ;  an'  Ruth  she  used  to 
come  over  an'  help  real  willin'.  She  got 
holt  of  her  ma'-in-law's  bunnit  one  after- 
noon an'  trimmed  it  up  real  tasty,  and  that 
pleased  Mis'  Barnet  about  to  death.  My 
conscience  pricked  me  some,  but  not  a  great 
sight.  I  'm  willin'  to  take  what  blame  come 
to  me  by  rights. 

44  The  doctor  come  postin'  along,  late  that 
night,  and  said  she  was  doin'  well,  owiu'  to 
the  care  she  'd  had,  and  give  me  a  wink. 
And  she  's  alive  yet,"  Mrs.  Powder  always 
assured  her  friends,  triumphantly  —  "  and, 
what 's  more,  is  iniddlin'  peaceable  disposed. 


LAW  LANE.  209 

She  's  said  one  or  two  p'inted  things  to  me, 
though,  an'  I  should  n't  wonder,  come  to 
think  it  over,  if  she  mistrusted  me  just  the 
least  grain.  But,  dear  sakes !  they  never 
was  so  comfortable  in  their  lives ;  an'  Ezra 
he  got  a  first-rate  bargain  for  a  lot  o'  Cros- 
by's woodland  that  the  railroad  wanted,  and 
peace  is  kind  o'  set  in  amou'st  'em  up  in 
Law  Lane." 


V. 

When  Ezra  Barnet  waked  on  Christmas 
morning,  in  his  familiar,  dark  little  cham- 
ber under  the  lean-to  roof,  he  could  hardly 
believe  that  he  was  at  home  again,  and  that 
such  strange  things  had  happened.  There 
were  cheerful  voices  in  the  kitchen  below, 
and  he  dressed  hurriedly  and  went  down- 
stairs. 

There  was  Mrs.  Powder,  cooking  the 
breakfast  with  lavish  generosity,  and  beam- 
ing with  good-nature.  Barnet,  the  father, 
was  smiling  and  looking  on  with  pleased  an- 
ticipation ;  the  sick  woman  was  comfortably 
bolstered  up  in  the  bedroom.  In  all  his  life 
the  son  had  never  felt  so  drawn  to  his 
mother  ;  there  was  a  new  look  in  her  eyes  as 


210  LA  W  LANE. 

he  went  toward  her  ;  she  had  lost  her  high 
color,  and  looked  at  him  pleadingly,  as  she 
never  had  done  before.  "  Ezry,  come  close 
here !  "  said  she.  "  I  believe  I  'm  goin'  to 
git  about  ag'in,  after  all.  Mis'  Powder  says 
I  be  ;  but  them  feelin's  I  had  .slippin'  down 
the  mow,  yesterday,  was  twice  as  bad  as  the 
thump  I  struck  with.  I  may  never  be  the 
same  to  work,  but  I  ain't  goin'  to  fight  with 
folks  no  more,  sence  the  Lord  '11  let  me  live 
a  spell  longer.  I  ain't  a-goin'  to  fight  with 
nobody,  no  matter  how  bad  J  want  to.  Now, 
you  go  an'  git  you  a  good  breakfast.  I 
ain't  eat  a  mouthful  since  breakfast  yester- 
day, and  you  can  bring  me  a  help  o'  any- 
thing Sister  Powder  favors  my  havin'." 

"  I  hope  't  will  last,"  muttered  Sister 
Powder  to  herself,  as  she  heaped  the  blue 
plate.  "  Wish  you  all  a  Merry  Christmas !  " 
she  said.  "  I  like  to  forgot  my  manners." 

It  was  Christmas  Day,  whether  anybody 
in  Law  Lane  remembered  it  or  not.  The 
sun  shone  bright  on  the  sparkling  snow,  the 
eaves  were  dropping,  and  the  snow-birds  and 
blue-jays  came  about  the  door.  The  wars  of 
Law  Lane  were  ended. 


A  LOST  LOVER. 


FOR  a  great  many  years  it  had  been  un- 
derstood in  Longfield  that  Miss  Horatia 
Dane  once  had  a  lover,  and  that  he  been 
lost  at  sea.  By  little  and  little,  in  one  way 
and  another,  her  acquaintances  found  out 
or  made  up  the  whole  story ;  and  Miss 
Dane  stood  in  the  position,  not  of  an  unmar- 
ried woman  exactly,  but  rather  of  having 
spent  most  of  her  life  in  a  long  and  lonely 
widowhood.  She  looked  like  a  person  with 
a  history,  strangers  often  said  (as  if  we  each 
did  not  have  a  history)  ;  and  her  own  un- 
broken reserve  about  this  romance  of  hers 
gave  everybody  the  more  respect  for  it. 

The  Longfield  people  paid  willing  defer- 
ence to  Miss  Dane :  her  family  had  always 
been  one  that  could  be  liked  and  respected 
and  she  was  the  last  that  was  left  in  the  old 
home  of  which  she  was  so  fond.  This  was 
a  high,  square  house,  with  a  row  of  pointed 
windows  in  its  roof,  a  peaked  porch  in  front, 


212  A  LOST  LOVER. 

with  some  lilac-bushes  near  it ;  and  down 
by  the  road  was  a  long,  orderly  procession 
of  poplars,  like  a  row  of  sentinels  standing 
guard.  She  had  lived  here  alone  since  her 
father's  death,  twenty  years  before.  She 
was  a  kind,  just  woman  whose  pleasures 
were  of  a  stately  and  sober  sort ;  and  she 
seemed  not  unhappy  in  her  loneliness, 
though  she  sometimes  said  gravely  that  she 
was  the  last  of  her  family,  as  if  the  fact 
had  a  great  sadness  for  her. 

She  had  some  middle-aged  and  elderly 
cousins  who  lived  at  a  distance,  and  they 
came  occasionally  to  see  her  ;  but  there  had 
been  no  }roung  people  staying  in  her  house 
for  many  years  until  this  summer,  when  the 
daughter  of  her  youngest  cousin  had  writ- 
ten to  ask  if  she  might  come  to  make  a  visit. 
She  was  a  motherless  girl  of  twenty,  both 
older  and  younger  than  her  years.  Her 
father  and  brother,  who  were  civil  engi- 
neers, had  taken  some  work  upon  the  line 
of  a  railway  in  the  far  Western  country. 
Nelly  had  made  many  long  journeys  with 
them  before  and  since  she  had  left  school, 
and  she  had  meant  to  follow  them  now,  after 
spending  a  fortnight  with  the  old  cousin 
whom  she  had  not  seen  since  her  childhood. 


A  LOST  LOVER.  213 

Her  father  had  laughed  at  this  visit  as  a 
freak,  and  warned  her  of  the  dullness  and 
primness  of  Longfield;  but  the  result  was 
that  the  girl  found  herself  very  happy  in  the 
comfortable  home.  She  was  still  her  own 
free,  unfettered,  lucky,  and  sunshiny  self; 
and  the  old  house  was  so  much  pleasanter 
for  the  girlish  face  and  life,  that  Miss  Ho- 
ratia  had,  at  first  timidly  and  then  most 
heartily,  begged  her  to  stay  for  the  whole 
summer,  or  even  the  autumn,  until  her  fa- 
ther was  ready  to  come  East.  The  name  of 
Dane  was  very  dear  to  Miss  Horatia,  and 
she  grew  fonder  of  her  guest.  When  the 
village  people  saw  her  glance  at  the  girl  af- 
fectionately, as  they  sat  together  in  the  fam- 
ily pew  of  a  Sunday,  or  saw  them  walking 
together  after  tea,  they  said  it  was  a  good 
thing  for  Miss  Horatia;  how  bright  she 
looked!  and  no  doubt  she  would  leave  all 
her  money  to  Nelly  Dane,  if  she  played  her 
cards  well. 

But  we  will  do  Nelly  justice,  and  say  that 
she  was  not  mercenary ;  she  would  have 
scorned  such  a  thought.  She  had  grown  to 
have  a  great  love  for  her  cousin  Horatia, 
and  really  liked  to  please  her.  She  ideal- 
ized her,  I  have  no  doubt ;  and  her  repres- 


214  A  LOST  LOVER. 

sion,  her  grave  courtesy  and  rare  words  of 
approval,  had  a  great  fascination  for  a  girl 
who  had  just  been  used  to  people  who  chat- 
tered, and  were  upon  most  intimate  terms 
with  you  directly,  and  could  forget  you  with 
equal  ease.  And  Nelly  liked  having  so  ad- 
miring and  easily  pleased  an  audience  as 
Miss  Dane  and  her  old  servant  Melissa. 
She  liked  to  be  queen  of  her  company :  she 
had  so  many  gay,  bright  stories  of  what  had 
happened  to  herself  and  her  friends.  Be- 
side, she  was  clever  with  her  needle,  and 
had  all  those  practical  gifts  which  elderly 
women  approve  so  heartily  in  girls.  They 
liked  her  pretty  clothes ;  she  was  sensible, 
and  economical,  and  busy ;  they  praised  her 
to  each  other  and  to  the  world,  and  even 
stubborn  old  Andrew,  the  man  servant  to 
whom  Miss  Horatia  herself  spoke  with  def- 
erence, would  do  anything  she  asked.  Nelly 
would  by  no  means  choose  so  dull  a  life  as 
this  for  the  rest  of  her  days ;  but  she  en- 
joyed it  immensely  for  the  time  being.  She 
instinctively  avoided  all  that  would  shock 
the  grave  dignity  and  old-school  ideas  of 
vX  Miss  Dane ;  and  somehow  she  never  had 
felt  happier  or  better  satisfied  with  life. 
Perhaps  it  was  because  she  was  her  best  and 


A  LOST  LOVER.  215 

most  lady-like  self.  It  was  not  long  before 
she  knew  the  village  people  almost  as  well 
as  Miss  Dane  did,  and  she  became  a  very 
great  favorite,  as  a  girl  so  easily  can  who  is 
good-natured  and  pretty,  and  well  versed  in 
city  fashions ;  who  has  the  tact  and  clever- 
ness that  come  to  such  a  nature  from  going 
about  the  world  and  knowing  many  people. 

She  had  not  been  in  Longfield  many 
weeks  before  she  heard  something  of  Miss 
Dane's  love-story  ;  for  one  of  her  new  friends 
asked,  in  a  confidential  moment,  "  Does  your 
cousin  ever  speak  to  you  about  the  young 
man  to  whom  she  was  engaged  to  be  mar- 
ried ?  "  And  Nelly  answered,  "  No,"  with 
great  wonder,  and  not  without  regret  at  her 
own  ignorance.  After  this  she  kept  eyes 
and  ears  open  for  whatever  news  of  this 
lover's  existence  might  be  found. 

At  last  it  happened  one  morning  that  she 
had  a  good  chance  for  a  friendly  talk  with 
Melissa;  for  who  should  know  the  family 
affairs  better  than  she  ?  Miss  Horatia  had 
taken  her  second-best  parasol,  with  a  deep 
fringe,  and  had  gone  majestically  down  the 
street  to  do  some  household  errands  which 
she  could  trust  to  no  one.  Melissa  was 
shelling  peas  at  the  shady  kitchen  doorstep, 


216  A  LOST  LOVER. 

and  Nelly  came  strolling  round  from  the 
garden,  along  the  clean-swept  flag-stones, 
and  sat  down  to  help  her.  Melissa  moved 
along,  with  a  grim  smile,  to  make  room  for 
her.  "  You  need  n't  bother  yourself,"  said 
she.  "  I  've  nothing  else  to  do.  You  '11 
green  your  fingers  all  over."  But  she  was 
evidently  pleased  to  have  company. 

"  My  fingers  will  wash,"  said  Nelly,  "  and 
I  've  nothing  else  to  do  either.  Please  push 
the  basket  this  way  a  little,  or  I  shall  scat- 
ter the  pods,  and  then  you  will  scold."  She 
went  to  work  busily,  while  she  tried  to  think 
of  the  best  way  to  find  out  the  story  she 
wished  to  hear. 

"  There !  "  said  Melissa,  "  I  never  told 
Miss  H'ratia  to  get  some  citron,  and  I  set- 
tled yesterdav  to  make  some  pound-cake  this 
forenoon  after  I  got  dinner  along  a  piece. 
She  's  most  out  o'  mustard  too ;  she 's  set 
about  having  mustard  to  eat  with  her  beef, 
just  as  the  old  colonel  was  before  her.  I 
never  saw  any  other  folks  eat  mustard  with 
their  roast  beef ;  but  every  family  has  their 
own  tricks.  I  tied  a  thread  round  my  left- 
hand  little  finger  purpose  to  remember  that 
citron  before  she  came  down  this  morning. 
I  hope  I  ain't  losing  my  fac'lties."  It  was 


A  LOST  LOVER.  217 

seldom  that  Melissa  was  so  talkative  as  this 
at  first.  She  was  clearly  in  a  talkative  mood. 

"  Melissa,"  asked  Nelly,  with  great  brav- 
ery, after  a  minute  or  two  of  silence,  "  who 
was  it  that  my  cousin  Horatia  was  going  to 
marry  ?  It 's  odd  that  I  should  n't  know ; 
but  I  don't  remember  father's  ever  speaking 
of  it,  and  I  should  n't  think  of  asking  her." 

"  I  s'pose  it  '11  seem  strange  to  you,"  said 
Melissa,  beginning  to  shell  the  peas  a  great 
deal  faster,  "  but  as  many  years  as  I  have 
lived  in  this  house  with  her,  —  her  mother, 
the  old  lady,  fetched  me  up,  —  I  never  knew 
Miss  H'ratia  to  say  a  word  about  him.  But 
there !  she  knows  I  know,  and  we  've  got 
an  understanding  on  many  things  we  never 
talk  over  as  some  folks  would.  I  've  heard 
about  it  from  other  folks.  She  was  visiting 
her  great-aunt  in  Salem  when  she  met  with 
him.  His  name  was  Carrick,  and  it  was 
presumed  they  was  going  to  be  married 
when  he  came  home  from  the  voyage  he  was 
lost  on.  He  had  the  promise  of  going  out 
master  of  a  new  ship.  They  did  n't  keep 
company  long ;  it  was  made  up  of  a  sudden, 
and  folks  here  did  n't  get  hold  of  the  story 
till  some  time  after.  I  've  heard  some  that 
ought  to  know  say  it  was  only  talk,  and  they 


218  A   LOST  LOVER. 

never  was  engaged  to  be  married  no  more 
than  I  ain." 

"  You  say  he  was  lost  at  sea  ? "  asked 
Nelly. 

"  The  ship  never  was  heard  from.  They 
supposed  she  was  run  down  in  the  night  out 
in  the  South  Seas  somewhere.  It  was  a 
/good  while  before  they  gave  up  expecting 
news  ;  but  none  ever  come.  I  think  she  set 
everything  by  him,  and  took  it  very  hard 
losing  of  him.  But  there !  she  'd  never  say 
a  word.  You  're  the  freest-spoken  Dane  I 
ever  saw ;  but  you  may  take  it  from  your 
mother's  folks.  I  expect  he  gave  her  that 
whale's  tooth  with  the  ship  drawn  on  it 
that 's  on  the  mantelpiece  in  her  room.  She 
may  have  a  sight  of  other  keepsakes,  for  all 
I  know ;  but  it  ain't  likely."  And  here 
there  was  a  pause,  in  which  Nelly  grew  sor- 
rowful as  she  thought  of  the  long  waiting 
for  tidings  of  the  missing  ship,  and  of  her 
cousin's  solitary  life.  It  was  very  odd  to 
think  of  prim  Miss  Horatia  's  being  in  love 
with  a  sailor.  There  was  a  young  lieuten- 
ant in  the  navy  whom  Nelly  herself  liked 
dearly,  and  he  had  gone  away  on  a  long 
voyage.  "  Perhaps  she  's  been  just  as  \\cll 
off,"  said  Melissa.  "  She 's  dreadful  set,  y'r 


A  LOST  LOVER.  219 

cousin  H'ratia  is,  and  sailors  is  high-tem- 
pered men.  I  've  heard  it  hinted  that  he 
was  a  fast  fellow ;  and  if  a  woman  's  got  a 
good  home  like  this,  and 's  able  to  do  for 
herself,  she'd  better  stay  there.  I  ain't 
going  to  give  up  a  certainty  for  an  uncer- 
tainty,—  that's  what  /  always  tell  'em," 
added  Melissa,  with  great  decision,  as  if  she 
were  besieged  by  lovers ;  but  Nelly  smiled 
inwardly  as  she  thought  of  the  courage  it 
would  take  to  support  any  one  who  wished 
to  offer  her  companion  his  heart  and  hand. 
It  would  need  desperate  energy  to  scale  the 
walls  of  that  garrison. 

The  green  peas  were  all  shelled  presently, 
and  Melissa  said  gravely  that  she  should 
have  to  be  lazy  now  until  it  was  time  to  put 
in  the  meat.  She  was  n't  used  to  being 
helped,  unless  there  was  extra  work,  and  she 
calculated  to  have  one  piece  of  work  join  on 
to  another.  However,  it  was  no  account, 
and  she  was  obliged  for  the  company ;  and 
Nelly  laughed  merrily  as  she  stood  washing 
her  hands  in  the  shining  old  copper  basin  at 
the  sink.  The  sun  would  not  be  round  that 
side  of  the  house  for  a  long  time  yet,  and 
the  pink  and  blue  morning-glories  were  still 
in  their  full  bloom  and  freshness.  They 


220  A  LOST  LOVER. 

grew  over  the  window,  twined  on  strings  ex- 
actly the  same  distance  apart.  There  was  a 
box  crowded  full  of  green  houseleeks  down 
at  the  side  of  the  door ;  they  were  straying 
over  the  edge,  and  Melissa  stooped  stiffly 
down  with  an  air  of  disapproval  at  their 
untidiness.  "  They  straggle  all  over  every- 
thing," said  she,  "  and  they  're  no  kind  of 
use,  only  Miss's  mother,  she  set  everything 
by  'em.  She  fetched  'em  from  home  with 
her  when  she  was  married,  her  mother  kep' 
a  box,  and  they  came  from  England.  Folks 
used  to  say  they  was  good  for  bee  stings." 
Then  she  went  into  the  inner  kitchen,  and 
Nelly  went  slowly  away  along  the  flag-stones 
to  the  garden  from  whence  she  had  come. 
The  garden-gate  opened  with  a  tired  creak, 
and  shut  with  a  clack  ;  and  she  noticed  how 
smooth  and  shiny  the  wood  was  where  the 
touch  of  so  many  hands  had  worn  it.  There 
was  a  great  pleasure  to  this  gii-1  in  finding 
yherself  among  such  old  and  well-worn  things. 
She  had  been  for  a  long  time  in  cities,  or  at 
the  West ;  and  among  the  old  fashions  and 
ancient  possessions  of  Longfield  it  seemed 
to  her  that  everything  had  its  story,  and  she 
liked  the  quietness  and  unchangeableness 
with  which  life  seemed  to  go  on  from  year 


A  LOST  LOVER.  221 

to  year.  She  had  seen  many  a  dainty  or 
gorgeous  garden,  but  never  one  that  she  had 
liked  so  well  as  this,  with  its  herb-bed  and 
its  broken  rows  of  currant-bushes,  its  tall 
stalks  of  white  lilies,  and  its  wandering  rose- 
bushes and  honeysuckles,  that  had  bloomed 
beside  the  straight  paths  for  so  many  more 
summers  than  she  herself  had  lived.  She 
picked  a  little  bouquet  of  late  red  roses,  and 
carried  it  into  the  house  to  put  on  the  par- 
lor table.  The  wide  hall-door  was  standing 
open,  with  its  green  outer  blinds  closed,  and 
the  old  hall  was  dim  and  cool.  Miss  Hora- 
tia  did  not  like  a  glare  of  sunlight,  and  she 
abhorred  flies  with  her  whole  heart.  Nelly 
could  hardly  see  her  way  through  the  rooms, 
it  had  been  so  bright  out  of  doors ;  but  she 
brought  the  tall  champagne-glass  of  water 
from  the  dining-room  and  put  the  flowers  in 
their  place.  Then  she  looked  at  two  sil- 
houettes which  stood  on  the  mantel  in  carved 
ebony  frames.  They  were  portraits  of  an 
uncle  of  Miss  Dane  and  his  wife.  Miss 
Dane  had  thought  Nelly  looked  like  this 
uncle  the  evening  before.  She  could  not 
see  the  likeness  herself;  but  the  pictures 
suggested  something  else,  and  she  turned 
suddenly,  and  went  hurrying  up  the  stairs 


222  A   LOST  LOVER. 

to  Miss  Horatia's  own  room,  where  she  re- 
membered to  have  seen  a  group  of  sil- 
houettes fastened  to  the  wall.  There  were 
seven  or  eight,  and  she  looked  at  the  young 
men  among  them  most  carefully ;  but  they 
were  all  marked  with  the  name  of  Dane  : 
they  were  Miss  Horatia's  uncles  and  broth- 
ers, and  our  friend  hung  them  on  their  little 
brass  hooks  again  with  a  feeling  of  disap- 
pointment. Perhaps  her  cousin  had  a  quaint 
miniature  of  the  lover,  painted  on  ivory,  and 
shut  in  a  worn  red  morocco  case ;  she  hoped 
she  should  get  a  sight  of  it  some  day.  This 
/srory  of  the  lost  sailor  had  a  wonderful 
charm  for  the  girl.  Miss  Horatia  had  never 
been  so  interesting  to  her  before.  How  she 
must  have  mourned  for  the  lover,  and  missed 
him,  and  hoped  there  would  yet  be  news 
from  the  ship!  Nelly  thought  she  would 
tell  her  own  little  love-story  some  day, 
though  there  was  not  much  to  tell  yet,  in 
spite  of  there  being  so  much  to  think  about. 
She  built  a  little  castle  in  Spain  as  she  sat 
in  the  front  window-seat  of  the  upper  hall, 
and  dreamed  pleasant  stories  for  herself 
until  the  sharp  noise  of  the  front  gate-latch 
waked  her  ;  and  she  looked  out  through  the 
blind  to  see  her  cousin  coming  up  the  walk. 


A  LOST  LOVER.  223 

Miss  Horatia  looked  hot  and  tired,  and 
her  thoughts  were  not  of  any  fashion  of  ro- 
mance. "  It  is  going  to  be  very  warm,"  said 
she.  "  I  have  been  worrying  ever  since  I 
have  been  gone,  because  I  forgot  to  ask  An- 
drew to  pick  those  white  currants  for  the 
minister's  wife.  I  promised  that  she  should 
have  them  early  this  morning.  Would  you 
go  out  to  the  kitchen  and  ask  Melissa  to 
step  in  for  a  moment,  my  dear  ?  " 

Melissa  was  picking  over  red  currants  to 
make  a  pie,  and  rose  from  her  chair  with  a 
little  unwillingness.  "  I  guess  they  could 
wait  until  afternoon,"  said  she,  as  she  came 
back.  "  Miss  H'ratia  's  in  a  fret  because 
she  forgot  about  sending  some  white  cur- 
rants to  the  minister's.  I  told  her  that  An- 
drew had  gone  to  have  the  horses  shod,  and 
wouldn't  be  back  till  near  noon.  I  don't 
see  why  part  of  the  folks  in  the  world  should 
kill  themselves  trying  to  suit  the  rest.  As 
long  as  I  have  n't  got  any  citron  for  the 
cake,  I  suppose  I  might  go  out  and  pick 
'em,"  added  Melissa  ungraciously.  "I'll 
get  some  to  set  away  for  tea  anyhow." 

Miss  Dane  had  a  letter  to  write  after  she 
had  rested  from  her  walk  ;  and  Nelly  soon 
left  her  in  the  dark  parlor,  and  went  back 


J 


224  A   LOST  LOVER. 

to  the  sunshiny  garden  to  help  Melissa,  who 
seemed  to  be  taking  life  with  more  than  her 
usual  disapproval.  She  was  sheltered  by  an 
enormous  gingham  sunbonnet. 

"  I  set  out  to  free  my  mind  to  your  cousin 
H'ratia  this  morning,"  said  she,  as  Nelly 
crouched  down  at  the  opposite  side  of  the 
bush  where  she  was  picking  ;  "  but  we  can't 
agree  on  that  p'int,  and  it 's  no  use.  I  don't 
say  nothing.  You  might 's  well  ask  the 
moon  to  face  about  and  travel  the  other  way 
as  to  try  to  change  Miss  H'ratia's  mind.  I 
ain't  going  to  argue  it  with  her,  it  ain't 
my  place ;  I  know  that  as  well  as  anybody. 
She'd  run  her  feet  off  for  the  minister's 
folks  any  day  ;  and  though  I  do  say  he 's  a 
fair  preacher,  they  have  n't  got  a  speck  o' 
consideration  nor  fac'lty ;  they  think  the 
world  was  made  for  them,  but  I  think  likely 
they  '11  find  out  it  was  n't ;  most  folks  do. 
When  he  first  was  settled  here,  I  had  a  fit  o' 
sickness,  and  he  come  to  see  me  when  I  was 
getting  over  the  worst  of  it.  He  did  the 
best  he  could,  I  always  took  it  very  kind  of 
him ;  but  he  made  a  prayer  and  he  kep' 
sayin'  '  this  aged  handmaid,'  I  should  think 
a  dozen  times.  Aged  handmaid  !  "  said  Me- 
lissa scornfully ;  "  I  don't  call  myself  aged 


A  LOST  LOVER.  225 

yet,  and  that  was  more  than  ten  years  ago. 
I  never  made  pretensions  to  being  younger 
than  I  am ;  but  you  'd  'a'  thought  I  was  a 
topplin'  eld  creatur'  going  on  a  hundred." 

Nelly  laughed.  Melissa  looked  cross,  and 
moved  on  to  the  next  currant  -  bush.  "  So 
that's  why  you  don't  like  the  minister?" 
But  the  question  did  not  seem  to  please. 

"  I  hope  I  never  should  be  set  against  a 
preacher  by  such  as  that."  And  Nelly  has- 
tened to  change  the  subject ;  but  there  was 
to  be  a  last  word :  "  I  like  to  see  a  minister 
that 's  solid  minister  right  straight  through, 
not  one  of  these  veneered  folks.  But  old 
Parson  Croden  spoilt  me  for  setting  under 
any  other  preaching." 

"  I  wonder,"  said  Nelly  after  a  little,  "  if 
Cousin  Horatia  has  any  picture  of  that  Cap- 
tain Carrick." 

"  He  was  n't  captain,"  said  Melissa.  "  I 
never  heard  that  it  was  any  more  than  they 
talked  of  giving  him  a  ship  next  voyage." 

"  And  you  never  saw  him  ?  He  never 
came  here  to  see  her  ?  " 

"  Bless  you,  no  !  She  met  with  him  at 
Salem,  where  she  was  spending  the  winter, 
and  he  went  right  away  to  sea.  I  've  heard 
a  good  deal  more  about  it  of  kte  years  than 


226  A  LOST  LOVER. 

I  ever  did  at  the  time.  I  suppose  the  Salem 
folks  talked  about  it  enough.  All  I  know 
is,  there  was  other  good  matches  that  offered 
to  her  since,  and  could  n't  get  her ;  and  I 
/  suppose  it  was  on  account  of  her  heart's 
being  buried  in  the  deep  with  him."  And 
this  unexpected  bit  of  sentiment,  spoken  in 
Melissa's  grum  tone,  seemed  so  funny  to  her 
young  companion,  that  she  bent  very  low 
to  pick  from  a  currant-twig  close  to  the 
ground,  and  could  not  ask  any  more  ques- 
tions for  some  time. 

"  I  have  seen  her  a  sight  o'  times  when  I 
knew  she  was  thinking  about  him,"  Melissa 
went  on  presently,  this  time  with  a  tender- 
ness in  her  voice  that  touched  Nelly's  heart. 
"  She 's  been  dreadful  lonesome.  She  and 
the  old  colonel,  her  father,  was  n't  much 
company  to  each  other,  and  she  always  kep* 
everything  to  herself.  The  only  time  she 
ever  said  a  word  to  me  was  one  night  six  or 
seven  years  ago  this  Christmas.  They  got 
up  a  Christmas-tree  in  the  vestry,  and  she 
went,  and  I  did  too ;  I  guess  everybody  in 
the  whole  church  and  parish  that  could  crawl 
turned  out  to  go.  The  children  they  inado 
a  dreadful  racket.  I  ?d  ha'  got  my  ears  took 
off  if  I  had  been  so  forth-putting  when  I 


A  LOST  LOVER.  227 

was  little.  I  was  looking  round  for  Miss 
H'ratia  'long  at  the  last  of  the  evening,  and 
somebody  said  they  'd  seen  her  go  home.  I 
hurried,  and  I  could  n't  see  any  light  in 
the  house,  and  I  was  afraid  she  was  sick 
or  something.  She  come  and  let  me  in,  and 
I  see  she  had  been  a-cryin'.  I  says,  '  Have 
you  heard  any  bad  news  ? '  But  she  says, 
4  No,'  and  began  to  cry  again,  real  pitiful. 
'  I  never  felt  so  lonesome  in  my  life,'  says 
she,  '  as  I  did  down  there.  It 's  a  dreadful 
thing  to  be  left  all  alone  in  the  world.'  I 
did  feel  for  her ;  but  1  could  n't  seem  to 
say  a  word.  I  put  some  pine  chips  I  had 
handy  for  morning  on  the  kitchen  fire,  and 
I  made  her  up  a  cup  o'  good  hot  tea  quick 's 
I  could,  and  took  it  to  her ;  and  I  guess 
she  felt  better.  She  never  went  to  bed  till 
three  o'clock  that  night.  I  could  n't  shut  my 
eyes  till  I  heard  her  come  upstairs.  There ! 
I  set  everything  by  Miss  H'ratia.  I  have  n't 
got  no  folks  either.  I  was  left  an  orphan 
over  to  Deerfield,  where  Miss's  mother  come 
from,  and  she  took  me  out  o'  the  town-farm 
to  bring  up.  I  remember  when  I  come 
here,  I  was  so  small  I  had  a  box  to  stand  up 
on  when  I  helped  wash  the  dishes.  There  's 
nothing  I  ain't  had  to  make  me  comfortable, 


228  A  LOST  LOVER. 

and  I  do  just  as  I  'm  a  mind  to,  and  call  in 
extra  help  every  day  of  the  week  if  I  give 
the  word  ;  but  I  've  had  my  lonesome  times, 
and  I  guess  Miss  H'ratia  knew." 

Nelly  was  very  much  touched  by  this  bit 
of  a  story,  it  was  a  new  idea  to  her  that  Me- 
lissa should  have  so  much  affection  and  be 
so  sympathetic.  People  never  will  get  over 
being  surprised  that  chestnut-burrs  are  not 

rough  inside  as  they  are  outside,  and  the 
girl's  heart  warmed  toward  the  old  woman 
who  had  spoken  with  such  unlooked-for  sen- 
timent and  pathos.  Melissa  went  to  the 
house  with  her  basket,  and  Nelly  also  went 
in,  but  only  to  put  on  another  hat,  and  see 
if  it  were  straight  in  a  minute  spent  be- 
fore the  old  mirror,  before  she  hurried  down 
the  long  elm-shaded  street  to  buy  a  pound 
cf  citron  for  the  cake.  She  left  it  on  the 
kitchen  table  when  she  came  back,  and  no- 
body ever  said  anything  about  it ;  only 
there  were  two  delicious  pound-cakes  —  a 
heart  and  a  round  —  on  a  little  blue  china 
plate  beside  Nelly's  plate  at  tea. 

After  tea,  Nelly  and  Miss  Dane  sat  in 
the  front  doorway,  —  the  elder  woman  in  a 
high-backed  chair,  and  the  younger  on  the 
door-step.  The  tree-toads  and  crickets  were 


A  LOST  LOVER.  229 

tuning  up  heartily,  the  stars  showed  a  little 
through  the  trees,  and  the  elms  looked  heavy 
and  black  against  the  sky.  The  fragrance 
of  the  white  lilies  in  the  garden  blew  through 
the  hall.  Miss  Horatia  was  tapping  the 
ends  of  her  fingers  together.  Probably  she 
was  not  thinking  of  anything  in  particular. 
She  had  had  a  very  peaceful  day,  with  the 
exception  of  the  currants;  and  they  had, 
after  all,  gone  to  the  parsonage  some  time 
before  noon.  Beside  this,  the  minister  had 
sent  word  that  the  delay  made  no  distress ; 
for  his  wife  had  unexpectedly  gone  to  Down- 
ton  to  pass  the  day  and  night.  Miss  Hora- 
tia had  received  the  business  letter  for  which 
she  had  been  looking  for  several  days ;  so 
there  was  nothing  to  regret  deeply  for  that 
day,  and  there  seemed  to  be  nothing  for  one 
to  dread  on  the  morrow. 

"  Cousin  Horatia,"  asked  Nelly,  "  are  you 
sure  you  like  having  me  here?  Are  you 
sure  I  don't  trouble  you  ?  " 

"  Of  course  not,"  said  Miss  Dane,  without 
a  bit  of  sentiment  in  her  tone ;  "  I  find  it 
very  pleasant  having  young  company,  though 
I  am  used  to  being  alone  ;  and  I  don't  mind 
it  as  I  suppose  you  would." 

"  I  should  mind  it  very  much,"  said  the 
girl  softly. 


230  A    LOST  LOVER. 

"You  would  get  used  to  it,  as  I  have," 
said  Miss  Dane.  "  Yes,  dear,  I  like  having 
you  here  better  and  better.  I  hate  to  think 
of  your  going  away."  And  she  smoothed 
Nelly's  hair  as  if  she  thought  she  might  have 
spoken  coldly  at  first,  and  wished  to  make 
up  for  it.  This  rare  caress  was  not  without 
its  effect. 

"  I  don't  miss  father  and  Dick  so  very 
much,"  owned  Nelly  frankly,  "because  I 
have  grown  used  to  their  coming  and  go- 
ing ;  but  sometimes  I  miss  people  —  Cousin 
Horatia,  did  I  ever  say  anything  to  you 
about  George  Forest  ?  " 

"  I  think  I  remember  the  name,"  answered 
Miss  Dane. 

"  He  is  in  the  navy,  and  he  has  gone  a 
long  voyage,  and  —  I  think  everything  of 
him.  I  missed  him  awfully ;  but  it  is  al- 
most  time  to  get  a  letter." 

"  Does  your  father  approve  of  him  ?  " 
asked  Miss  Dane,  with  great  propriety. 
"  You  are  very  young  yet,  and  you  must  not 
think  of  such  a  thing  carelessly.  I  should 
be  so  much  grieved  if  you  threw  away  your 
happiness." 

"  Oh !  we  are  not  really  engaged,"  said 
Nelly,  who  felt  a  little  chilled.  "  I  suppose 


A  LOST  LOVER.  231 

we  are,  too ;  only  nobody  knows  yet.  Yes, 
father  knows  him  as  well  as  I  do,  and  he  is 
very  fond  of  him.  Of  course  I  should  not 
keep  it  from  father ;  but  he  guessed  it  him- 
self. Only  it's  such  a  long  cruise,  Cousin 
Horatia,  —  three  years,  I  suppose,  —  away 
off  in  China  and  Japan." 

"  I  have  known  longer  voyages  than  that," 
said  Miss  Dane,  with  a  quiver  in  her  voice ; 
and  she  rose  suddenly,  and  walked  away, 
this  grave,  reserved  woman,  who  seemed  so 
contented  and  so  comfortable.  But  when 
she  came  back,  she  asked  Nelly  a  great  deal 
about  her  lover,  and  learned  more  of  the 
girl's  life  than  she  ever  had  before.  And 
they  talked  together  in  the  pleasantest  way 
about  this  pleasant  subject,  which  was  so 
close  to  Nelly's  heart,  until  Melissa  brought 
the  candles  at  ten  o'clock,  that  being  the 
hour  of  Miss  Dane's  bedtime. 

But  that  night  Miss  Dane  did  not  go  to 
bed  at  ten ;  she  sat  by  the  window  in  her 
room,  thinking.  The  moon  rose  late ;  and 
after  a  little  while  she  blew  out  her  candles, 
which  were  burning  low.  I  suppose  that 
the  years  which  had  come  and  gone  since 
the  young  sailor  went  away  on  that  last  voy- 
age of  his  had  each  added  to  her  affection 


232  A  LOST  LOVER. 

for  him.  She  was  a  person  who  clung  the 
more  fondly  to  youth  as  she  left  it  the  far- 
ther behind. 

This  is  such  a  natural  thing;  the  great 
sorrows  of  our  youth  sometimes  become  the 
amusements  of  our  later  years  ;  we  can  only 
remember  them  with  a  smile.  We  find  that 
our  lives  look  fairer  to  us,  and  we  forget 
what  used  to  trouble  us  so  much,  when  we 
look  back.  Miss  Dane  certainly  had  come 
nearer  to  truly  loving  the  sailor  than  she 
had  any  one  else ;  and  the  more  she  thought 
of  it,  the  more  it  became  the  romance  of 
her  life.  She  no  longer  asked  herself,  as 
she  often  had  done  in  middle  life,  whether, 
if  he  had  lived  and  had  come  home,  she 
would  have  loved  and  married  him.  She 
had  minded  less  and  less,  year  by  year, 
knowing  that  her  friends  and  neighbors 
thought  her  faithful  to  the  love  of  her  youth. 
Poor,  gay,  handsome  Joe  Carrick  !  how  fond 
he  had  been  of  her,  and  how  he  had  looked 
at  her  that  day  he  sailed  away  out  of  Salem 
Harbor  on  the  brig  Chevalier !  If  she  had 
only  known  that  she  never  should  see  him 
again,  poor  fellow ! 

But,  as  usual,  hei-  thoughts  changed  their 
current  a  little  at  the  end  of  her  reverie. 


A  LOST  LOVER.  233 

Perhaps,  after  all,  loneliness  was  not  so  hard 
to  bear  as  other  sorrows.  She  had  had  a 
pleasant  life,  God  had  been  very  good  to 
her,  and  had  spared  her  many  trials,  and 
granted  her  many  blessings.  "  I  am  an  old 
woman  now,"  she  said  to  herself.  "  Things 
are  better  as  they  are  ;  I  can  get  on  by  my- 
self better  than  most  women  can,  and  I 
never  should  have  liked  to  be  interfered 
with." 

Then  she  shut  out  the  moonlight,  and 
lighted  her  candles  again,  with  an  almost 
guilty  feeling.  "  What  should  I  say  if 
Nelly  sat  up  till  nearly  midnight  looking 
out  at  the  moon  ?  "  she  thought.  "  It  is  very- 
silly;  but  this  is  such  a  beautiful  night.  I 
should  like  to  have  her  see  the  moon  shin- 
ing through  the  tops  of  the  trees."  But 
Nelly  was  sleeping  the  sleep  of  the  just  and 
sensible  in  her  own  room. 

Next  morning  at  breakfast,  Nelly  was  a 
little  conscious  of  there  having  been  uncom- 
mon confidences  the  night  before ;  but  Miss 
Dane  was  her  usual  calm  and  somewhat  for- 
mal self,  and  proposed  their  making  a  few 
calls  after  dinner,  if  the  weather  were  not 
too  hot.  Nelly  at  once  wondered  what  she 
had  better  wear.  There  was  a  certain  black 


234  A  LOST  LOVER. 

grenadine  which  Miss  Horatia  had  noticed 
with  approval,  and  she  remembered  that  the 
lower  ruffle  needed  hemming,  and  made  up 
her  mind  that  she  would  devote  most  of 
the  time  before  dinner  to  that  and  to  some 
other  repairs.  So,  after  breakfast  was  over, 
she  brought  the  dress  downstairs,  with  her 
work-box,  and  settled  herself  in  the  dining- 
room.  Miss  Dane  usually  sat  there  in  the 
morning;  it  was  a  pleasant  room,  and  she 
could  keep  an  unsuspected  watch  over  the 
kitchen  and  Melissa,  who  did  not  need 
watching  in  the  least.  I  dare  say  it  was  for 
vythe  sake  of  being  within  the  sound  of  a 
voice. 

Miss  Dane  marched  in  and  out  that  morn- 
ing ;  she  went  upstairs,  and  came  down 
again,  and  was  mysteriously  busy  for  a  while 
in  the  parlor.  Nelly  was  sewing  steadily  by 
a  window,  where  one  of  the  blinds  was  a  lit- 
tle way  open,  and  tethered  in  its  place  by  a 
string.  She  hummed  a  tune  to  herself  over 
and  over :  — 

;    "  What  will  you  do,  lore,  •when  I  am  going, 
With  white  sails  flowing,  the  seas  beyond  ?  " 

And  old  Melissa,  going  to  and  fro  at  her 
work  in  the  kitchen,  grumbled  out  bits  of 
an  ancient  psalm-tune  at  intervals.  There 


A  LOST  LOVES.  235 

seemed  to  be  some  connection  between  these 
fragments  in  her  mind  ;  it  was  like  a  ledge 
of  rock  in  a  pasture,  that  sometimes  runs 
under  the  ground,  and  then  crops  out  again. 
Perhaps  it  was  the  tune  of  Windham. 

Nelly  found  that  there  was  a  good  deal 
to  be  done  to  the  grenadine  dress  when  she 
looked  it  over  critically,  and  became  very 
diligent.  It  was  quiet  in  and  about  the 
house  for  a  long  time,  until  suddenly  she 
heard  the  sound  of  heavy  footsteps  coming 
in  from  the  road.  The  side-door  was  in  a 
little  entry  between  the  room  where  Nelly 
sat  and  the  kitchen,  and  the  new-comer 
knocked  loudly.  "  A  tramp,"  said  Nelly  to 
herself;  while  Melissa  came  to  open  the 
door,  wiping  her  hands  hurriedly  on  her 
apron. 

"  I  wonder  if  you  could  n't  give  me  some- 
thing to  eat,"  said  the  man. 

"  I  suppose  I  could,"  answered  Melissa. 
"  Will  you  step  in  ?  "  Beggars  were  very 
few  in  Longfield,  and  Miss  Dane  never 
wished  anybody  to  go  away  hungry  from  her 
house.  It  was  off  the  grand  highway  of 
tramps ;  but  they  were  by  no  means  un- 
known. 

Melissa  searched  among  her  stores,  and 


236  A  LOST  LOVER. 

Nelly  heard  her  putting  one  plate  after  an- 
other on  the  kitchen  table,  and  thought  that 
the  breakfast  promised  to  be  a  good  one,  if 
it  were  late. 

"  Don't  put  yourself  out,"  said  the  man, 
as  he  moved  his  chair  nearer.  "  I  lodged  in 
an  old  barn  three  or  four  miles  above  here 
last  night,  and  there  did  n't  seem  to  be  very 
good  board  there." 

"  Going  far  ?  "  inquired  Melissa  concisely. 

"  Boston,"  said  the  man.  "  I  'm  a  little 
too  old  to  travel  afoot.  Now  if  I  could  go 
by  water,  it  would  seem  nearer.  I  'm  more 
used  to  the  water.  This  is  a  royal  good 
piece  o'  beef.  I  suppose  you  could  n't  put 
your  hand  on  a  mug  of  cider  ?  "  This  was 
said  humbly ;  but  the  tone  failed  to  touch 
Melissa's  heart. 

"  No,  I  could  n't,"  said  she  decisively  ;  so 
there  was  an  end  of  that,  and  the  conversa- 
tion flagged  for  a  time. 

Presently  Melissa  came  to  speak  to  Miss 
Dane,  who  had  just  come  downstairs.  "  Could 
you  stay  in  the  kitchen  a  few  minutes  ?  " 
she  whispered.  "  There  's  an  old  creatur' 
there  that  looks  foreign.  He  came  to  the 
door  for  something  to  eat,  and  I  gave  it  to 
him;  but  he's  miser'ble  looking,  and  I 


A  LOST  LOVER.  237 

don't  like  to  leave  him  alone.  I  'm  just  in 
the  midst  o'  dressing  the  chickens.  He  '11 
be  through  pretty  quick,  according  to  the 
way  he  's  eating  now." 

Miss  Dane  followed  her  without  a  word  ; 
and  the  man  half  rose,  and  said,  "  Good- 
morning,  madam  !  "  with  unusual  courtesy. 
And,  when  Melissa  was  out  of  hearing,  he 
spoke  again :  "  I  suppose  you  have  n't  any 
cider  ?  "  to  which  his  hostess  answered,  "  I 
could  n't  give  you  any  this  morning,"  in  a 
tone  that  left  no  room  for  argument.  He 
looked  as  if  he  had  had  a  great  deal  too 
much  to  drink  already. 

"  How  far  do  you  call  it  from  here  to 
Boston  ?  "  he  asked,  and  was  told  that  it  was 
eighty  miles. 

"  I  'm  a  slow  traveler,"  said  he  ;  "  sailors 
don't  take  much  to  walking."  Miss  Dane 
asked  him  if  he  had  been  a  sailor.  "  Noth- 
ing else,"  replied  the  man,  who  seemed  much 
inclined  to  talk.  He  had  been  eating  like  a 
hungry  dog,  as  if  he  were  half-starved,  —  a 
slouching,  red-faced,  untidy-looking  old  man, 
with  some  traces  of  former  good  looks  still 
to  be  discovered  in  his  face.  "  Nothing  else. 
I  ran  away  to  sea  when  I  was  a  boy,  and  I 
followed  it  until  I  got  so  old  they  would  n't 


238  A  LOST  LOVE  It. 

ship  me  even  for  cook."  There  was  some- 
thing in  his  feeling,  for  once,  so  comfortable, 
—  perhaps  it  was  being  with  a  lady  like  Miss 
Dane,  who  pitied  him,  —  that  lifted  his 
thoughts  a  little  from  their  usual  low  level. 
"  It 's  drink  that 's  been  the  ruin  of  me," 
said  he.  "  I  ought  to  have  been  somebody. 
I  was  nobody's  fool  when  I  was  young.  I 
got  to  be  mate  of  a  firstrate  ship,  and  there 
was  some  talk  o'  my  being  captain  before 
long.  She  was  lost  that  voyage,  and  three 
of  us  were  all  that  was  saved  ;  we  got  picked 
up  by  a  Chinese  junk.  She  had  the  plague 
aboard  of  her,  and  my  mates  died  of  it,  and 
I  was  down  myself.  It  was  a  hell  of  a  place 
to  be  in.  When  I  got  ashore  I  shipped  on 
an  old  bark  that  pretended  to  be  coming 
round  the  Cape,  and  she  turned  out  to  be  a 
pirate.  I  just  went  to  the  dogs,  and  I  've 
gone  from  bad  to  worse  ever  since." 

"  It 's  never  too  late  to  mend,"  said  Me- 
lissa, who  came  into  the  kitchen  just  then 
for  a  string  to  tie  the  chickens. 

"  Lord  help  us,  yes,  it  is !  "  said  the  sailor. 
"  It 's  easy  for  you  to  say  that.  I  'm  too 
old.  I  ain't  been  master  of  this  craft  for  a 
good  while."  And  he  laughed  at  his  melan- 
choly joke. 


A  LOST  LOVER.  239 

"  Don't  say  that,"  said  Miss  Dane. 

"Well,  now,  what  could  an  old  wrack 
like  me  do  to  earn  a  living  ?  and  who  'd 
want  me  if  I  could?  You  wouldn't.  I  don't 
know  when  I  've  been  treated  so  decent  as 
this  before.  I  'm  all  broke  down."  But  his 
tone  was  no  longer  sincere ;  he  had  fallen 
back  on  his  profession  of  beggar. 

"  Could  n't  you  get  into  some  asylum  or 
—  there  's  the  Sailors'  Snug  Harbor,  is  n't 
that  for  men  like  you?  It  seems  such  a 
pity  for  a  man  of  your  years  to  be  homeless 
and  a  wanderer.  Have  n't  you  any  friends 
at  all  ?  "  And  here,  suddenly,  Miss  Dane's 
face  altered,  and  she  grew  very  white  ;  some- 
thing startled  her.  She  looked  as  one  might 
who  saw  a  fearful  ghost. 

"  No,"  said  the  man  ;  "  but  my  folks  used 
to  be  some  of  the  best  in  Salem.  I  have  n't 
shown  my  head  there  this  good  while.  I  was 
an  orphan.  My  grandmother  brought  me 
up.  You  see,  I  didn't  come  back  to  the 
States  for  thirty  or  forty  years.  Along  at 
the  first  of  it  I  used  to  see  men  in  port  that 
I  used  to  know ;  but  I  always  dodged  'em, 
and  I  was  way  off  in  outlandish  places.  I  've 
got  an  awful  sight  to  answer  for.  I  used  to 
have  a  good  wife  when  I  was  in  Australia. 


240  A  LOST  LOVER. 

I  don't  know  where  I  have  n't  been,  first  and 
last.  I  was  always  a  gay  fellow.  I  Ve  spent 
as  much  as  a  couple  o'  fortunes,  and  here  I 
am  a-begging.  Devil  take  it !  " 

Nelly  was  still  sewing  in  the  dining-room  ; 
but,  soon  after  Miss  Dane  had  gone  out  to 
the  kitchen,  one  of  the  doors  between  had 
slowly  closed  itself  with  a  plaintive  whine. 
The  round  stone  which  Melissa  used  to  keep 
it  open  had  been  pushed  away.  Nelly  was 
a  little  annoyed  ;  she  liked  to  hear  what  was 
going  on  ;  but  she  was  just  then  holding  her 
work  with  great  care  in  a  place  that  was 
hard  to  sew,  so  she  did  not  move.  She 
heard  the  murmur  of  voices,  and  thought, 
after  a  while,  that  the  old  vagabond  ought 
to  go  away  by  this  time.  What  could  be 
making  her  cousin  Horatia  talk  so  long  with 
him  ?  It  was  not  like  her  at  all.  He  would 
beg  for  money,  of  course,  and  she  hoped 
Miss  Horatia  would  not  give  him  a  single 
cent. 

It  was  some  time  before  the  kitchen-door 
opened,  and  the  man  came  out  with  clumsy, 
stumbling  steps.  "  I  'm  much  obliged  to 
you,"  he  said,  "  and  I  don't  know  but  it  is 
the  last  time  I  '11  get  treated  as  if  I  was  a 
gentleman.  Is  there  anything  I  could  do 


A  LOST  LOVER.  241 

for  you  round  the  place  ?  "  he  asked  hesi- 
tatingly, and  as  if  he  hoped  that  his  offer 
would  not  be  accepted. 

"  No,"  answered  Miss  Dane.  "  No,  thank 
you.  Good-by !  "  and  he  went  away. 

The  old  beggar  had  been  lifted  a  little 
above  his  low  life ;  he  fell  back  again  directly 
before  he  was  out  of  the  gate.  "  I  'm  blessed 
if  she  did  n't  give  me  a  ten-dollar  bill !  "  said 
he.  "  She  must  have  thought  it  was  one. 
I  '11  get  out  o'  call  as  quick  as  I  can ;  hope 
she  won't  find  it  out,  and  send  anybody  af- 
ter me."  Visions  of  unlimited  drinks,  and 
other  things  in  which  it  was  possible  to  find 
pleasure,  flitted  through  his  stupid  mind. 
"  How  the  old  lady  stared  at  me  once  !  "  he 
thought.  "  Wonder  if  she  was  anybody  I 
used  to  know  ?  '  Downton  ?  '  I  don't  know 
as  I  ever  heard  of  the  place."  And  he 
scuffed  along  the  dusty  road  ;  and  that  night 
he  was  very  drunk,  and  the  next  day  he  went 
wandering  on,  God  only  knows  where. 

But  Nelly  and  Melissa  both  heard  a  strange 
noise  in  the  kitchen,  as  if  some  one  had  fallen, 
and  they  found  that  Miss  Horatia  had  fainted 
dead  away.  It  was  partly  the  heat,  she  said, 
when  she  saw  their  anxious  faces  as  %he  came 
to  herself ;  she  had  had  a  little  headache  all 


242  A  LOST  LOVER. 

the  morning ;  it  was  very  hot  and  close  in 
the  kitchen,  and  the  faintness  had  come  upon 
her  suddenly.  They  helped  her  to  walk 
into  the  cool  parlor  presently,  and  Melissa 
brought  her  a  glass  of  wine,  and  Nelly  sat 
beside  her  on  a  footstool  as  she  lay  on  the 
sofa,  and  fanned  her.  Once  she  held  her 
cheek  against  Miss  Horatia's  hand  for  a 
minute,  and  she  will  never  know  as  long  as 
she  lives,  what  a  comfort  she  was  that  day. 

Every  one  but  Miss  Dane  forgot  the  old 
sailor  tramp  in  this  excitement  that  followed 
his  visit.  Do  you  guess  already  who  he 
was  ?  But  the  certainty  could  not  come  to 
you  with  the  chill  and  horror  it  did  to  Miss 
Dane.  There  had  been  something  familiar 
in  his  look  and  voice  from  the  first,  and 

en  she  had  suddenly  known  him,  her  lost 
lover.  It  was  an  awful  change  that  the 
years  had  made  in  him.  He  had  truly 
called  himself  a  wreck;  he  was  like  some 
dreary  wreck  in  its  decay  and  utter  ruin,  its 
miserable  ugliness  and  worthlessness,  falling 
to  pieces  in  the  slow  tides  of  a  lifeless  south- 
ern sea. 

And  he  had  once  been  her  lover,  Miss 
Dane  thought  bitterly,  many  times  in  the 
days  that  followed.  Not  that  there  was  ever 


A  LOST  LOVER.  243 

anything  asked  or  promised  between  them, 
but  they  had  liked  each  other  dearly,  and 
had  parted  with  deep  sorrow.  She  had 
thought  of  him  all  these  years  so  tenderly ; 
she  had  believed  always  that  his  love  had 
been  even  greater  than  her  own,  and  never 
once  had  doubted  that  the  missing  brig 
Chevalier  had  carried  with  it  down  into  the 
sea  a  heart  that  was  true  to  her. 

By  little  and  little  this  all  grew  familiar, 
and  she  accustomed  herself  to  the  knowledge 
of  her  new  secret.  She  shuddered  at  the 
thought  of  the  misery  of  a  life  with  him,  and 
she  thanked  God  for  sparing  her  such  shame 
and  despair.  The  distance  between  them 
seemed  immense.  She  had  always  been  a 
person  of  so  much  consequence  among  her 
friends,  and  so  dutiful  and  irreproachable  a 
woman.  She  had  not  begun  to  understand 
what  dishonor  is  in  the  world  ;  her  life  had 
been  shut  in  by  safe  and  orderly  surround- 
ings. It  was  a  strange  chance  that  had 
brought  this  wanderer  to  her  door.  She  re- 
membered his  wretched  untidiness.  She 
had  not  liked  even  to  stand  near  him.  She 
had  never  imagined  him  grown  old  :  he  had 
always  been  young  to  her.  It  was  a  great 
mercy  he  had  not  known  her;  it  would 


244  A   LOST  LOVER. 

have   been   a  most   miserable   position   for 
them  both ;  and  yet  she  thought,  with  sad 

vx/surprise,  that  she  had  not  known  she  had 
changed  so  entirely.  She  thought  of  the 
different  ways  their  roads  in  life  had  gone ; 
she  pitied  him ;  she  cried  about  him  more 
than  once ;  and  she  wished  that  she  could 
know  he  was  dead.  He  might  have  been 
such  a  brave,  good  man,  with  his  strong  will 
and  resolute  courage.  God  forgive  him  for 
the  wickedness  which  his  strength  had  been 
made  to  serve !  "  God  forgive  him !  "  said 
Miss  Horatia  to  herself  sadly  over  and  over 
again.  She  wondered  if  she  ought  to  have 
/let  him  go  away,  and  so  have  lost  sight  of 

<•/  him ;  but  she  could  not  do  anything  else. 
She  suffered  terribly  on  his  account ;  she 
had  a  pity,  such  as  God's  pity  must  be,  for 
even  his  willful  sins. 

So  her  romance  was  all  over  with  ;  yet  the 
townspeople  still  whispered  it  to  strangers, 
and  even  Melissa  and  Nelly  never  knew  how 
she  had  really  lost  her  lover  in  so  strange 
and  sad  a  way  in  her  latest  years.  No- 
body noticed  much  change  ;  but  Melissa  saw 
that  the  whale's  tooth  disappeared  from  its 
place  in  Miss  Ploratia's  room,  and  her  old 
friends  said  to  each  other  that  she  began  to 


A  LOST  LOVER.  245 

show  her  age  a  great  deal.  She  seemed 
really  like  an  old  woman  now ;  she  was  not 
the  woman  she  had  been  a  year  ago. 

This  is  all  of  the  story ;  but  we  so  often 
wish,  when  a  story  comes  to  an  end,  that  we 
knew  what  became  of  the  people  afterward. 
Shall  we  believe  that  Miss  Horatia  clings 
more  and  more  fondly  to  her  young  cousin 
Nelly ;  and  that  Nelly  will  stay  with  her  a 
great  deal  before  she  marries,  and  sometimes 
afterward,  when  the  lieutenant  goes  away  to 
sea  ?  Shall  we  say  that  Miss  Dane  seems  as 
well  satisfied  and  comfortable  as  ever,  though 
she  acknowledges  she  is  not  so  young  as  she 
used  to  be,  and  secretly  misses  something 
out  of  her  life  ?  It  is  the  contentment  of 
winter  rather  than  that  of  summer:  the 
flowers  are  out  of  bloom  for  her  now,  and 
under  the  snow.  And  Melissa,  will  not  she 
always  be  the  same,  with  a  quaintness  and 
freshness  and  toughness  like  a  cedar-tree,  to 
the  end  of  her  days  ?  Let  us  hope  they  will 
live  on  together  and  be  untroubled  this  long 
time  yet,  the  two  good  women  ;  and  let  us 
wish  Nelly  much  pleasure,  and  a  sweet  so- 
berness and  fearlessness  as  she  grows  older 
and  finds  life  a  harder  thing  to  understand, 
and  a  graver  thing  to  know. 


THE  COURTING  OF  SISTER  WISBY. 


ALL  the  morning  there  had  been  an  in- 
creasing temptation  to  take  an  out -door 
holiday,  and  early  in  the  afternoon  the  temp- 
tation outgrew  my  power  of  resistance.  A 
far-away  pasture  on  the  long  southwestern 
slope  of  a  high  hill  was  persistently  present 
to  my  mind,  yet  there  seemed  to  be  no  par- 
ticular reason  why  I  should  think  of  it.  I 
was  not  sure  that  I  wanted  anything  from 
the  pasture,  and  there  was  no  sign,  except 
the  temptation,  that  the  pasture  wanted  any- 
thing of  me.  But  I  was  on  the  farther  side 
of  as  many  as  three  fences  before  I  stopped 
to  think  again  where  I  was  going,  and  why. 

There  is  no  use  in  trying  to  tell  another 
person  about  that  afternoon  unless  he  dis- 
tinctly remembers  weather  exactly  like  it. 

o  number  of  details  concerning  an  Arctic 
ice-blockade  will  give  a  single  shiver  to  a 
child  of  the  tropics.  This  was  one  of  those 


THE   COURTING  OF  SISTER   WISBY.     247 

perfect  New  England  days  in  late  summer, 
when  the  spirit  of  autumn  takes  a  first 
stealthy  flight,  like  a  spy,  through  the  ripen- 
ing country  -  side,  and,  with  feigned  sym- 
pathy for  those  who  droop  with  August 
heat,  puts  her  cool  cloak  of  bracing  air 
about  leaf  and  flower  and  human  shoulders. 
Every  living  thing  grows  suddenly  cheerful 
and  strong  ;  it  is  only  when  you  catch  sight 
of  a  horror-stricken  little  maple  in  swampy 
soil,  —  a  little  maple  that  has  second  sight 
and  foreknowledge  of  coming  disaster  to  her 
race,  —  only  then  does  a  distrust  of  au- 
tumn's friendliness  dim  your  joyful  satisfac- 
tion. 

In  midwinter  there  is  always  a  day  when 
one  has  the  first  foretaste  of  spring ;  in  late 
August  there  is  a  morning  when  the  air  is 
for  the  first  time  autumn  like.  Perhaps  it 
is  a  hint  to  the  squirrels  to  get  in  their  first 
supplies  for  the  winter  hoards,  or  a  reminder 
that  summer  will  soon  end,  and  everybody 
had  better  make  the  most  of  it.  We  are 
always  looking  forward  to  the  passing  and 
ending  of  winter,  but  when  summer  is  here 
it  seems  as  if  summer  must  always  last.  As 
I  went  across  the  fields  that  day,  I  found  my- 
self half  lamenting  that  the  world  must  fade 


248     THE  COURTING  OF  SISTER  WISBY. 

again,  even  that  the  best  of  her  budding  and 
bloom  was  only  a  preparation  for  another 
spring-time,  for  an  awakening  beyond  the 
coming  winter's  sleep. 

The  sun  was  slightly  veiled  ;  there  was  a 
chattering  group  of  birds,  which  had  gath- 
ered for  a  conference  about  their  early  mi- 
gration. Yet,  oddly  enough,  I  heard  the 
voice  of  a  belated  bobolink,  and  presently 
saw  him  rise  from  the  grass  and  hover  lei- 
surely, while  he  sang  a  brief  tune.  He  was 
much  behind  time  if  he  were  still  a  house- 
keeper ;  but  as  for  the  other  birds,  who  lis- 
tened, they  cared  only  for  their  own  notes. 
An  old  crow  went  sagging  by,  and  gave  a 
croak  at  his  despised  neighbor,  just  as  a 
black  reviewer  croaked  at  Keats  :  so  hard  it 
is  to  be  just  to  one's  contemporaries.  The 
bobolink  was  indeed  singing  out  of  season, 
and  it  was  impossible  to  say  whether  he 
really  belonged  most  to  this  summer  or  to 
the  next.  He  might  have  been  delayed  on 
his  northward  journey  ;  at  any  rate,  he  had 
a  light  heart  now,  to  judge  from  his  song, 
and  I  wished  that  I  could  ask  him  a  few 
questions,  —  how  he  liked  being  the  last 
man  among  the  bobolinks,  and  where  he  had 
taken  singing  lessons  in  the  South. 


THE  COURTING  OF  SISTER    WISBY.    249 

Presently  I  left  the  lower  fields,  and  took 
a  path  that  led  higher,  where  I  could  look 
beyond  the  village  to  the  northern  country 
mountainward.  Here  the  sweet  fern  grew, 
thick  and  fragrant,  and  I  also  found  myself 
heedlessly  treading  on  pennyroyal.  Near 
by,  in  a  field  corner,  I  long  ago  made  a  most 
comfortable  seat  by  putting  a  stray  piece  of 
board  and  bit  of  rail  across  the  angle  of  the 
fences.  I  have  spent  many  a  delightful 
hour  there,  in  the  shade  and  shelter  of  a 
young  pitch-pine  and  a  wild-cherry  tree,  with 
a  lovely  outlook  toward  the  village,  just  far 
enough  away  beyond  the  green  slopes  and 
tall  elms  of  the  lower  meadows.  But  that 
day  I  still  had  the  feeling  of  being  outward 
bound,  and  did  not  turn  aside  nor  linger. 
The  high  pasture  land  grew  more  and  more 
enticing. 

I  stopped  to  pick  some  blackberries  that 
twinkled  at  me  like  beads  among  their  dry 
vines,  and  two  or  three  yellow-birds  fluttered 
up  from  the  leaves  of  a  thistle,  and  then 
came  back  again,  as  if  they  had  complacently 
discovered  that  I  was  only  an  overgrown 
yellow-bird,  in  strange  disguise  but  perfectly 
harmless.  They  made  me  feel  as  if  I  were 
an  intruder,  though  they  did  not  offer  to 


250    THE  COURTING  OF  SISTER   W1SBY. 

peck  at  me,  and  we  parted  company  very 
soon.  It  was  good  to  stand  at  last  on  the 
great  shoulder  of  the  hill.  The  wind  was 
coming  in  from  the  sea,  there  was  a  fine  fra- 
grance from  the  pines,  and  the  air  grew 
sweeter  every  moment.  I  took  new  pleasure 
/n  the  thought  that  in  a  piece  of  wild  pasture 
land  like  this  one  may  get  closest  to  Nature, 
and  subsist  upon  what  she  gives  of  her  own 
free  will.  There  have  been  no  drudging, 
heavy-shod  ploughmen  to  overturn  the  soil, 
and  vex  it  into  yielding  artificial  crops. 
Here  one  has  to  take  just  what  Nature  is 
pleased  to  give,  whether  one  is  a  yellow-bird 
or  a  human  being.  It  is  very  good  entertain- 
ment for  a  summer  wayfarer,  and  I  am  ask- 
ing my  reader  now  to  share  the  winter  pro- 
vision which  I  harvested  that  day.  Let  us 
hope  that  the  small  birds  are  also  faring 
well  after  their  fashion,  but  I  give  them  an 
anxious  thought  while  the  snow  goes  hurry- 
ing in  long  waves  across  the  buried  fields, 
this  windy  winter  night. 

I  next  went  farther  down  the  hill,  and 
got  a  drink  of  fresh  cool  water  from  the 
brook,  and  pulled  a  tender  sheaf  of  sweet 
flag  beside  it.  The  mossy  old  fence  just  be- 
yond was  the  last  barrier  between  me  and 


THE  COURTING  OF  SISTER  WJSBY.     251 

the  pasture  which  had  sent  an  invisible  mes- 
senger earlier  in  the  day,  but  I  saw  that 
somebody  else  had  come  first  to  the  ren- 
dezvous :  there  was  a  brown  gingham  cape- 
bonnet  and  a  sprigged  shoulder-shawl  bob- 
bing up  and  down,  a  little  way  off  among 
the  junipers.  I  had  taken  such  uncommon 
pleasure  in  being  alone  that  I  instantly  felt 
a  sense  of  disappointment ;  then  a  warm 
glow  of  pleasant  satisfaction  rebuked-my  self- 
ishness. This  could  be  no  one  but  dear  old 
Mrs.  Goodsoe,  the  friend  of  my  childhood 
and  fond  dependence  of  my  maturer  years. 
I  had  not  seen  her  for  many  weeks,  but  here 
she  was,  out  on  one  of  her  famous  campaigns 
for  herbs,  or  perhaps  just  returning  from  a 
blueberrying  expedition.  I  approached  with 
care,  so  as  not  to  startle  the  gingham  bon- 
net ;  but  she  heard  the  rustle  of  the  bushes 
against  my  dress,  and  looked  up  quickly,  as 
she  knelt,  bending  over  the  turf.  In  that 
position  she  was  hardly  taller  than  the  lux- 
uriant junipers  themselves. 

"  I  'm  a-gittin'  in  my  mulleins,"  she  said 
briskly,  "an*  I  've  been  thinking  o'  you 
these  twenty  times  since  I  come  out  o'  the 
house.  I  begun  to  believe  you  must  ha' 
forgot  me  at  last." 


252     THE   COURTING   OF  SISTER   W1SBY. 

"  I  have  been  away  from  home,"  I  ex- 
plained. "  Why  don't  you  get  in  your 
pennyroyal  too  ?  There  's  a  great  plantation 
of  it  beyond  the  next  fence  but  one." 

"  Pennyr'yal !  "  repeated  the  dear  little 
old  woman,  with  an  air  of  compassion  for 
inferior  knowledge ;  "  't  ain't  the  right  time, 
darlin'.  Pennyr'yal's  too  rank  now.  But 
for  mulleins  this  day  is  prime.  I  've  got  a 
dreadful  graspin'  fit  for  'em  this  year  ;  seems 
if  I  must  be  goin'  to  need  'em  extry.  I  feel 
like  the  squirrels  must  when  they  know  a 
hard  winter's  comin'."  And  Mrs.  Goodsoe 
bent  over  her  work  again,  while  I  stood  by 
and  watched  her  carefully  cut  the  best  full- 
grown  leaves  with  a  clumsy  pair  of  scissors, 
which  might  have  served  through  at  least 
half  a  century  of  herb-gathering.  They 
were  fastened  to  her  apron-strings  by  a  long 
piece  of  list. 

"  I  'm  going  to  take  my  jack-knife  and 
help  you,"  I  suggested,  with  some  fear  of  re- 
fusal. "  I  just  passed  a  flourishing  family 
of  six  or  seven  heads  that  must  have  been 
growing  on  purpose  for  you." 

"Now  be  keerful,  dear  heart,"  was  the 
anxious  response ;  "  choose  'em  well. 
There  's  odds  in  mulleins  same 's  there  is  in 


THE  COURTING    OF  SISTER  W1SBY.     253 

angels.  Take  a  plant  that 's  all  run  up  to 
stalk,  and  there  ain't  but  little  goodness  in 
the  leaves.  This  one  I  'm  at  now  must  ha' 
been  stepped  on  by  some  creatur'  and 
blighted  of  its  bloom,  and  the  leaves  is  han'- 
some !  When  I  was  small  I  used  to  have  a 
notion  that  Adam  an'  Eve  must  a  took  mul- 
leins fer  their  winter  wear.  Ain't  they  just 
like  flannel,  for  all  the  world  ?  I  've  had  ex- 
perience, and  I  know  there 's  plenty  of  sick- 
ness might  be  saved  to  folks  if  they  'd  quit 
horse-radish  and  such  fiery,  exasperating 
things,  and  use  mullein  drarves  in  proper 
season.  Now  I  shall  spread  these  an'  dry 
'em  nice  on  my  spare  floor  in  the  garrit,  an' 
come  to  steam  'em  for  use  along  in  the 
winter  there  '11  be  the  vally  of  the  whole 
summer's  goodness  in  'em,  sartin."  And 
she  snipped  away  with  the  dull  scissors, 
while  I  listened  respectfully,  and  took  great 
pains  to  have  my  part  of  the  harvest  present 
a  good  appearance. 

"  This  is  most  too  dry  a  head,"  she  added 
presently,  a  little  out  of  breath.  "  There  I 
I  can  tell  you  there's  win'rows  o'  young 
doctors,  bilin'  over  with  book-larnin',  that 
is  truly  ignorant  of  what  to  do  for  the  sick, 
or  how  to  p'int  out  those  paths  that  well 


254     THE   COURTING   OF  BISTER   WISBY. 

people  foller  toward  sickness.  Book-fools  I 
call  'em,  them  young  men,  an'  some  on  'em 
never  '11  live  to  know  much  better,  if  they 
git  to  be  Methuselahs.  In  my  time  eVery 
middle-aged  woman,  who  had  brought  up  a 
family,  had  some  proper  ideas  o'  dealin'  with 
complaints.  I  won't  say  but  there  was  some 
fools  amongst  them,  but  I  'd  rather  take  my 
chances,  unless  they  'd  forsook  herbs  and 
gone  to  dealin'  with  patent  stuff.  Now  my 
mother  really  did  sense  the  use  of  herbs  and 
roots.  I  never  see  anybody  that  come  up 
to  her.  She  was  a  meek-looking  woman, 
but  very  understanding  mother  was." 

"  Then  that 's  where  you  learned  so  much 
yourself,  Mrs.  Goodsoe,"  I  ventured  to  say. 

"  Bless  your  heart,  I  don't  hold  a  candle 
to  her ;  't  is  but  little  I  can  recall  of  what 
she  used  to  say.  No,  her  1'arnin'  died  with 
her,"  said  my  friend,  in  a  self-depreciating 
tone.  "  Why,  there  was  as  many  as  twenty 
kinds  of  roots  alone  that  she  used  to  keep 
by  her,  that  I  forget  the  use  of ;  an'  I  'm 
sure  I  should  n't  know  where  to  find  the 
most  of  'em,  any.  There  was  an  herb  "  — 
airb,  she  called  it  —  "  an  herb  called  master- 
wort,  that  she  used  to  get  way  from  Penn- 
sylvany ;  and  she  used  to  think  everything 


THE  COURTING  OF  SISTER   WISBY.     255 

of  noble-liverwort,  but  I  never  could  seem 
to  get  the  right  effects  from  it  as  she  could. 
Though  I  don't  know  as  she  ever  really  did 
use  master  wort  where  somethin'  else  would  n't 
a  served.  She  had  a  cousin  married  out  in 
Pennsylvany  that  used  to  take  pains  to  get 
it  to  her  every  year  or  two,  and  so  she  felt 
't  was  important  to  have  it.  Some  set  more 
by  such  things  as  come  from  a  distance,  but 
I  rec'lect  mother  always  used  to  maintain 
that  folks  was  meant  to  be  doctored  with 
the  stuff  that  grew  right  about  'em ;  't  was 
sufficient,  an'  so  ordered.  That  was  before 
the  whole  population  took  to  livin'  on  wheels, 
the  way  they  do  now.  'T  was  never  my 
idee  that  we  was  meant  to  know  what's 
goin'  on  all  over  the  world  to  once.  There  's 
goin'  to  be  some  sort  of  a  set-back  one  o' 
these  days,  with  these  telegraphs  an'  things, 
an'  letters  comin'  every  hand's  turn,  and 
folks  leavin'  their  proper  work  to  answer 
'em.  I  may  not  live  to  see  it.  'T  was  al- 
lowed to  be  difficult  for  folks  to  git  about 
in  old  times,  or  to  git  word  across  the  coun- 
try, and  they  stood  in  their  lot  an'  place, 
and  weren't  all  just  alike,  either,  same  as 
pine-spills." 

We  were  kneeling  side  by  side  now,  as  if 


256     THE   COURTING   OF  SISTER   W1SHY. 

in  penitence  for  the  march  of  progress,  hut 
we  laughed  as  we  turned  to  look  at  each 
other. 

"  Do  you  think  it  did  much  good  when 
everybody  brewed  a  cracked  quart  mug  of 
herb-tea?"  I  asked,  walking  away  on  my 
knees  to  a  new  mullein. 

"  I  've  always  lifted  my  voice  against  the 
practice,  far  's  I  could,"  declared  Mrs.  Good- 
soe  ;  "  an'  I  won't  deal  out  none  o'  the  herbs 
I  save  for  no  such  nonsense.  There  was 
three  houses  along  our  road,  —  I  call  no 
names,  —  where  you  couldn't  go  into  the 
livin'  room  without  findin'  a  mess  o'  herb- 
tea  drorin'  on  the  stove  or  side  o'  the  fire- 
place, winter  or  summer,  sick  or  well.  One 
was  thoroughwut,  one  would  be  camomile, 
and  the  other,  like  as  not,  yellow  dock  ;  but 
they  all  used  to  put  in  a  little  new  rum  to 
git  out  the  goodness,  or  keep  it  from  spilin'." 
(Mrs.  Goodsoe  favored  me  with  a  knowing 
smile.)  "  Land,  how  mother  used  to  laugh ! 
But,  poor  creaturs,  they  had  to  work  hard, 
and  I  guess  it  never  done  'em  a  mite  o' 
harm  ;  they  was  all  good  herbs.  I  wish  you 
could  hear  the  quawkin'  there  used  to  be 
when  they  was  indulged  with  a  real  case  o' 
sickness.  Everybody  would  collect  from 


THE   COURTING   OF  SISTER   WISBY.     257 

far  an'  near  ;  you  'd  see  'em  coming  along 
the  road  and  across  the  pastures  then  ;  every- 
body clainorin'  that  nothin'  would  n't  do  no 
kind  o'  good  but  her  choice  o?  teas  or  drarves 
to  the  feet.  I  wonder  there  was  a  babe 
lived  to  grow  up  in  the  whole  lower  part  o' 
the  town  ;  an'  if  nothin'  else  'peared  to  ail 
'em,  word  was  passed  about  that 't  was  likely 
Mis'  So-and-So's  last  young  one  was  goin' 
to  be  foolish.  Land,  how  they  'd  gather ! 
I  know  one  day  the  doctor  come  to  Widder 
Peck's  and  the  house  was  crammed  so  't  he 
could  scercely  git  inside  the  door;  and  he 
says,  just  as  polite,  '  Do  send  for  some  of 
the  neighbors  !  '  as  if  there  wa'n't  a  soul  to 
turn  to,  right  or  left.  You  'd  ought  to  seen 
'em  begin  to  scatter." 

"  But  don't  you  think  the  cars  and  tele- 
graphs have  given  people  more  to  interest 
them,  Mrs.  Goodsoe  ?  Don't  you  believe 
people's  lives  were  narrower  then,  and  more 
taken  up  with  little  things  ?  "  I  asked,  un- 
wisely, being  a  product  of  modern  times. 

"  Not  one  mite,  dear,"  said  my  companion 
stoutly.  "  There  was  as  big  thoughts  then 
as  there  is  now ;  these  times  was  born  o' 
them.  The  difference  is  in  folks  themselves  ; 
but  now,  instead  o'  doin'  their  own  house- 


258     THE  COURTING   OF  SISTER    WISRY. 

keepin'  and  watchin'  their  own  'neighbors,  — 
though  that  was  carried  to  excess,  —  they 
git  word  that  a  niece's  child  is  ailin'  the 
other  side  o'  Massachusetts,  and  they  drop 
everything  and  git  on  their  best  clothes,  and 
off  they  jiggit  in  the  cars.  'Tis  a  bad  sign 
when  folks  wears  out  their  best  clothes  faster 
'n  they  do  their  every-day  ones.  The  other 
side  o'  Massachusetts  has  got  to  look  after 
itself  by  rights.  An'  besides  that,  Sunday- 
keepin'  's  all  gone  out  o'  fashion.  Some  lays 
it  to  one  thing  an'  some  another,  but  some  o' 
them  old  ministers  that  folks  are  all  a-sighin' 
for  did  preach  a  lot  o'  stuff  that  wa'n't 
nothin'  but  chaff ;  't  wa'n't  the  word  o'  God 
out  o' either  Old  Testament  or  New.  But 
everybody  went  to  meetin'  and  heard  it,  and 
come  home,  and  was  set  to  fightin'  with 
their  next  door  neighbor  over  it.  Now  I  'm 
a  believer,  and  I  try  to  live  a  Christian  life, 
but  I  'd  as  soon  hear  a  surveyor's  book  read 
out,  figgers  an'  all,  as  try  to  get  any  simple 
truth  out  o'  most  sermons.  It 's  them  as  is 
most  to  blame." 

"What  was  the  matter  that  day  at  Widow 
Peck's?"  I  hastened  to  ask,  for  I  knew  by 
experience  that  the  good,  clear-minded  soul 
beside  me  was  apt  to  grow  unduly  vexed  and 


THE  COURTING  OF  SISTER  WISBY.     259 

distressed  when  she  contemplated  the  state 
of  religious  teaching. 

"Why,  there  wa'n't  nothin'  the  matter, 
only  a  gal  o'  Miss  Peck's  had  met  with  a 
dis'pintment  and  had  gone  into  screechin' 
fits.  'T  was  a  rovin'  creatur'  that  had  come 
along  hayin'  time,  and  he'd  gone  off  an' 
forsook  her  betwixt  two  days;  nobody  ever 
knew  what  become  of  him.  Them  Pecks 
was  *  Good  Lord,  anybody !  '  kind  o'  gals, 
and  took  up  with  whoever  they  could  get. 
One  of  'em  married  Heron,  the  Irishman ; 
they  lived  in  that  little  house  that  was  burnt 
this  summer,  over  on  the  edge  o'  the  plains. 
He  was  a  good-hearted  creatur',  with  a 
laughin'  eye  and  a  clever  word  for  everybody. 
He  was  the  first  Irishman  that  ever  came 
this  way,  and  we  was  all  for  gettin'  a  look  at 
him,  when  he  first  used  to  go  by.  Mother's 
folks  was  what  they  call  Scotch-Irish,  though ; 
there  was  an  old  race  of  'em  settled  about 
here.  They  could  foretell  events,  some  on  'em, 
and  had  the  second  sight.  I  know  folks  used 
to  say  mother's  grandmother  had  them  gifts, 
but  mother  was  never  free  to  speak  about 
it  to  us.  She  remembered  her  well,  too." 

"  I  suppose  that  you  mean  old  Jim  Heron, 
who  was  such  a  famous  fiddler  ?  "  I  asked 


260     THE  COURTING  OF  SISTER  WISBY. 

with  great  interest,  for  I  am  always  delighted 
to  know  more  about  that  rustic  hero,  paro- 
chial Orpheus  that  he  must  have  been  ! 

"  Now,  dear  heart,  I  suppose  you  don't  re- 
member him,  do  you  ?  "  replied  Mrs.  Goodsoe, 
earnestly.  "  Fiddle  !  He  'd  about  break 
your  heart  with  them  tunes  of  his,  or  else  set 
your  heels  flying  up  the  floor  in  a  jig,  though 
you  was  minister  o'  the  First  Parish  and  all 
wound  up  for  a  funeral  prayer.  I  tell  ye 
there  ain't  no  tunes  sounds  like  them  used 
to.  It  used  to  seem  to  me  summer  nights 
when  I  was  comin'  along  the  plains  road, 
and  he  set  by  the  window  playin',  as  if  there 
was  a  bewitched  human  creatur'  in  that  old 
red  fiddle  o'  his.  He  could  make  it  sound 
just  like  a  woman's  voice  tellin'  somethin' 
over  and  over,  as  if  folks  could  help  her  out 
o'  her  sorrows  if  she  could  only  make  'em 
understand.  I  've  set  by  the  stone-wall  and 
cried  as  if  my  heart  was  broke,  and  dear 
knows  it  wa'n't  in  them  days.  How  he  would 
twirl  off  them  jigs  and  dance  tunes !  He 
used  to  make  somethin'  han'some  out  of  'em 
in  fall  an'  winter,  playin'  at  huskins  and 
dancin'  parties ;  but  he  was  nnstidcly  by 
spells,  as  he  got  along  in  years,  and  never 
knew  what  it  was  to  be  forehanded.  Every- 


THE  COURTING  OF  SISTER  WISBT.     261 

body  felt  bad  when  he  died ;  you  could  n't 
help  likin'  the  creatur'.  He  'd  got  the  gift  — 
that 's  all  you  could  say  about  it. 

"There  was  a  Mis'  Jerry  Foss,  that  lived 
over  by  the  brook  bridge,  on  the  plains  road, 
that  had  lost  her  husband  early,  and  was  left 
with  three  child 'n.  She  set  the  world  by  'em, 
and  was  a  real  pleasant,  ambitious  little  wo- 
man, and  was  workin'  on  as  best  she  could 
with  that  little  farm,  when  there  come  a  rage 
o'  scarlet  fever,  and  her  boy  and  two  girls 
was  swept  off  and  laid  dead  within  the  same 
week.  Every  one  o'  the  neighbors  did  what 
they  could,  but  she  'd  had  no  sleep  since  they 
was  taken  sick,  and  after  the  funeral  she  set 
there  just  like  a  piece  o'  marble,  and  would 
only  shake  her  head  when  you  spoke  to  her. 
They  all  thought  her  reason  would  go  ;  and 
't  would  certain,  if  she  could  n't  have  shed 
tears.  An'  one  o'  the  neighbors  —  't  was  like 
mother's  sense,  but  it  might  have  been  some- 
body else  — spoke  o'  Jim  Heron.  Mother 
an'  one  or  two  o'  the  women  that  knew  her 
best  was  in  the  house  with  her.  'T  was  right 
in  the  edge  o'  the  woods  and  some  of  us 
younger  ones  was  over  by  the  wall  on  the 
other  side  of  the  road  where  there  v/as  a 
couple  of  old  willows,  —  I  remember  just 


262    THE   COURTING  OF  SISTER  W1SBY. 

how  the  brook  clamp  felt;  and  we  kept 
quiet 's  we  could,  and  some  other  folks  come 
along  down  the  road,  and  stood  waitin'  on 
the  little  bridge,  hopin'  somebody 'd  come 
out,  I  suppose,  and  they  'd  git  news.  Every- 
body was  wrought  up,  and  felt  a  good  deal 
for  her,  you  know.  By  an'  by  Jim  Heron 
come  stealin'  right  out  o'  the  shadows  an'  set 
down  on  the  doorstep,  an'  't  was  a  good  while 
before  we  heard  a  sound  ;  then,  oh,  dear  me ! 
't  was  what  the  whole  neighborhood  felt  for 
that  mother  all  spoke  in  the  notes,  an'  they 
told  me  afterwards  that  Mis'  Foss's  face 
changed  in  a  minute,  and  she  come  right 
over  an'  got  into  my  mother's  lap,  —  she  was 
a  little  woman,  —  an'  laid  her  head  down, 
and  there  she  cried  herself  into  a  blessed 
sleep.  After  awhile  one  o'  the  other  women 
stole  out  an'  told  the  folks,  and  we  all  went 
home.  He  only  played  that  one  tune. 

"  But  there ! "  resumed  Mrs.  Goodsoe, 
after  a  silence,  during  which  my  eyes  were 
filled  with  tears.  "  His  wife  always  com- 
plained that  the  fiddle  made  her  nervous. 
She  never  'peared  to  think  nothin'  o'  poor 
Heron  after  she  'd  once  got  him." 

"  That 's  often  the  way,"  said  I,  with  harsh 
cynicism,  though  I  had  no  guilty  person  in 


THE  COURTING   OF  SISTER  WISBY.     263 

my  mind  at  the  moment ;  and  we  went  stray- 
ing off,  not  very  far  apart,  up  through  the 
pasture.  Mrs.  Goodsoe  cautioned  me  that 
we  must  not  get  so  far  off  that  we  could  not 
get  back  the  same  day.  The  sunshine  began 
to  feel  very  hot  on  our  backs,  and  we  both 
turned  toward  the  shade.  We  had  already 
collected  a  large  bundle  of  mullein  leaves, 
which  were  carefully  laid  into  a  clean,  calico 
apron,  held  together  by  the  four  corners,  and 
proudly  carried  by  me,  though  my  compan- 
ion regarded  them  with  anxious  eyes.  We 
sat  down  together  at  the  edge  of  the  pine 
woods,  and  Mrs.  Goodsoe  proceeded  to  fan 
herself  with  her  limp  cape-bonnet. 

"  I  declare,  how  hot  it  is  !  The  east  wind 's 
all  gone  again,"  she  said.  "  It  felt  so  cool 
this  forenoon  that  I  overburdened  myself 
with  as  thick  a  petticoat  as  any  I  've  got.  I  'm 
despri't  afeared  of  having  a  chill,  now  that  I 
ain't  so  young  as  once.  I  hate  to  be  housed 
up." 

"  It 's  only  August,  after  all,"  I  assured 
her  unnecessarily,  confirming  my  statement 
by  taking  two  peaches  out  of  my  pocket,  and 
laying  them  side  by  side  on  the  brown  pine 
needles  between  us. 

"  Dear  sakes  alive !  "  exclaimed  the   old 


J 


264     THE  COURTING  OF  SISTER  W1SDY. 

lady,  with  evident  pleasure.  "  Where  did 
you  get  them,  now?  Does  n't  anything  t;i>te 
twice  better  out-o'-doors  ?  I  ain't  had  such  a 
peach  for  years.  Do  le's  keep  the  stones, 
an'  I  '11  plant  'em  ;  it  only  takes  four  year  for 
a  peach  pit  to  come  to  bearing,  an'  I  guess 
I  'm  good  for  four  year,  'thout  I  meet  with 
some  accident." 

I  could  not  help  agreeing,  or  taking  a  fond 
look  at  the  thin  little  figure,  and  her  wrinkled 
brown  face  and  kind,  twinkling  eyes.  She 
looked  as  if  she  had  properly  dried  herself, 
by  mistake,  with  some  of  her  mullein  leaves, 
and  was  likely  to  keep  her  goodness,  and  to 
last  the  longer  in  consequence.  There  never 
was  a  truer,  simple-hearted  soul  made  out 
of  the  old-fashioned  country  dust  than  Mrs. 
Goodsoe.  I  thought,  as  I  looked  away  from 
her  across  the  wide  country,  that  nobody  was 
left  in  any  of  the  farm-houses  so  original,  so 
full  of  rural  wisdom  and  reminiscence,  so 
really  able  and  dependable,  as  she.  And 
nobody  had  made  better  use  of  her  time  in 
a  world  foolish  enough  to  sometimes  under- 
value medicinal  herbs. 

When  we  had  eaten  our  peaches  we  still 
sat  under  the  pines,  and  I  was  not  without 
pride  when  I  had  poked  about  in  the  ground 


TffE  COURTING   OF  SISTER  WISBY.    265 

with  a  little  twig,  and  displayed  to  my 
crony  a  long  fine  root,  bright  yellow  to  the 
eye,  and  a  wholesome  bitter  to  the  taste. 

"Yis,  dear,  goldthread,"  she  assented  in- 
dulgently. "  Seems  to  me  there 's  more  of 
it  than  anything  except  grass  an'  hardhack. 
Good  for  canker,  but  no  better  than  two  or 
three  other  things  I  can  call  to  mind ;  but  I 
always  lay  in  a  good  wisp  of  it,  for  old 
times'  sake.  Now,  I  want  to  know  why  you 
should  a  bit  it,  and  took  away  all  the  taste 
o'  your  nice  peach  ?  I  was  just  thinkin' 
what  a  han'sorae  entertainment  we  've  had. 
I  've  got  so  I  'sociate  certain  things  with 
certain  folks,  and  goldthread  was  sornethin' 
Lizy  Wisby  couldn't  keep  house  without, 
no  ways  whatever.  I  believe  she  took  so 
much  it  kind  o'  puckered  her  disposition." 

"  Lizy  Wisby  ?  "  I  repeated  inquiringly. 

"  You  knew  her,  if  ever,  by  the  name  of 
Mis'  Deacon  Brimblecom,"  answered  my 
friend,  as  if  this  were  only  a  brief  preface 
to  further  information,  sj  I  waited  with 
respectful  expectation.  Mrs.  Goodsoe  had 
grown  tired  out  in  the  sun,  and  a  good  story 
would  be  an  excuse  for  sufficient  rest.  It 
was  a  most  lovely  place  where  we  sat,  half- 
way up  the  long  hillside ;  for  my  part,  I  was 


266    THE   COURTING   OF  SISTER  WISBY. 

perfectly  contented  and  happy.  "  You  've 
often  heard  of  Deacon  Brimblecom  ?  "  she 
asked,  as  if  a  great  deal  depended  upon  his 
being  properly  introduced. 

"  I  remember  him,"  said  I.  "  They 
called  him  Deacon  Brimfull,  you  know,  and 
he  used  to  go  about  with  a  witch-ha/cl 
branch  to  show  people  where  to  dig  wells." 

"  That 's  the  one,"  said  Mrs.  Goodsoe, 
laughing.  "  I  did  n't  know 's  you  could  go 
so  far  back.  I  'm  always  divided  between 
whether  you  can  remember  everything  I 
can,  or  are  only  a  babe  in  arms." 

"  I  have  a  dim  recollection  of  there  being 
something  strange  about  their  marriage,"  I 
suggested,  after  a  pause,  which  began  to  ap- 
pear dangerous.  I  was  so  much  afraid  the 
subject  would  be  changed. 

"  I  can  tell  you  all  about  it,"  I  was 
quickly  answered.  "  Deacon  Brimblecora 
was  very  pious  accordin'  to  his  lights  in  his 
early  years.  He  lived  way  back  in  the 
country  then,  and  there  come  a  rovin' 
preacher  along,  and  set  everybody  up  that 
way  all  by  the  ears.  I  've  heard  the  old 
folks  talk  it  over,  but  I  forget  most  of  his 
doctrine,  except  some  of  his  followers  was 
persuaded  they  could  dwell  among  the  an- 


THE  COURTING  OF  SISTER  WISBY.    267 

gels  while  yet  on  airth,  and  this  Deacon 
Brimfull,  as  you  call  him,  felt  sure  he  was 
called  by  the  voice  of  a  spirit  bride.  So 
he  left  a  good,  deservin'  wife  he  had,  an' 
four  children,  and  built  him  a  new  house 
over  to  the  other  side  of  the  land  he  'd  had 
from  his  father.  They  didn't  take  much 
pains  with  the  buildin',  because  they  ex- 
pected to  be  translated  before  long,  and 
then  the  spirit  brides  and  them  folks  was 
goin'  to  appear  and  divide  up  the  airth 
amongst  'em,  and  the  world's  folks  and  on- 
believers  was  goin'  to  serve  'em  or  be  sent 
to  torments.  They  had  meetins  about  in 
the  school-houses,  an'  all  sorts  o'  goins  on  ; 
some  on  'em  went  crazy,  but  the  deacon  held 
on  to  what  wits  he  had,  an'  by  an'  by  the 
spirit  bride  did  n't  turn  out  to  be  much  of 
a  housekeeper,  an'  he  had  always  been  used 
to  good  livin',  so  he  sneaked  home  ag'in. 
One  o'  mother's  sisters  married  up  to  Ash 
Hill,  where  it  all  took  place  ;  that 's  how  I 
come  to  have  the  particulars." 

"  Then  how  did  he  come  to  find  his  Eliza 
Wisby?"  I  inquired.  "Do  tell  me  the 
whole  story;  you've  got  mullein  leaves 
enough." 

"  There 's   all  yisterday's   at   home,  if  I 


268    THE   COURTING   OF  SISTER  W1SBY. 

haven't,"  replied  Mrs.  Goodsoe.  "The 
way  he  come  a-courtin'  o'  Sister  Wisby  was 
this :  she  went  a-courtin'  o'  him. 

"  There  was  a  spell  he  lived  to  home,  and 
then  his  poor  wife  died,  and  he  had  a  spirit 
bride  in  good  earnest,  an'  the  child'n  was 
placed  about  with  his  folks  and  hers,  for 
they  was  both  out  o'  good  families  ;  and  I 
don't  know  what  come  over  him,  but  he  had 
another  pious  fit  that  looked  for  all  the 
world  like  the  real  thing.  He  had  n't  no 
family  cares,  and  he  lived  with  his  brother's 
folks,  and  turned  his  land  in  with  theirs. 
He  used  to  travel  to  every  meetin'  an'  con- 
ference that  was  within  reach  of  his  old  sor- 
rel hoss's  feeble  legs ;  he  j'ined  the  Christian 
Baptists  that  was  just  in  their  early  prime, 
and  he  was  a  great  exhorter,  and  got  to  be 
called  deacon,  though  I  guess  he  wa'n't  dea- 
con, 'less  it  was  for  a  spare  hand  when  dea- 
con timber  was  scercer'n  usual.  An'  one 
time  there  was  a  four  days'  protracted 
^eetin'  to  the  church  in  the  lower  part  of 
7  the  town.  'T  was  a  real  solemn  time  ;  some- 
thing more'n  usual  was  goin'  forward,  an' 
they  collected  from  the  whole  country  round. 
Women  folks  liked  it,  an'  the  men  too ;  it 
give  'em  a  change,  an'  they  was  quartered 


THE  COURTING  OF  SISTER  WISBT.    269 

round  free,  same  as  conference  folks  now. 
Some  on  'em,  for  a  joke,  sent  Silas  Brim- 
blecom  up  to  Lizy  Wisby's,  though  she  'd 
give  out  she  could  n't  accommodate  nobody, 
because  of  expectin'  her  cousin's  folks. 
Everybody  knew  't  was  a  lie ;  she  was 
amazin'  close  considerin'  she  had  plenty  to 
do  with.  There  was  a  streak  that  wa'n't 
just  right  somewheres  in  Lizy's  wits,  I  al- 
ways thought.  She  was  very  kind  in  case  o' 
sickness,  I  '11  say  that  for  her. 

"  You  know  where  the  house  is,  over  there 
on  what  they  call  Windy  Hill  ?  There  the 
deacon  went,  all  unsuspectin' ,  and  'stead  o' 
Lizy  's  resentin'  of  him  she  put  in  her  own 
hoss,  and  they  come  back  together  to  evenin' 
meetin'.  She  was  prominent  among  the 
sect  herself,  an'  he  bawled  and  talked,  and 
she  bawled  and  talked,  an'  took  up  more  'n 
the  time  allotted  in  the  exercises,  just  as  if 
they  was  showin'  off  to  each  other  what  they 
was  able  to  do  at  expoundin'.  Everybody 
was  laughin'  at  'em  after  the  meetin'  broke 
up,  and  that  next  day  an'  the  next,  an'  all 
through,  they  was  constant,  and  seemed  to 
be  havin'  a  beautiful  occasion.  Lizy  had 
always  give  out  she  scorned  the  men,  but 
when  she  got  a  chance  at  a  particular  one 


270     THE  COURTING  OF  SISTKR  W1SBY. 

't  was  altogether  different,  and  the  deacon 
seemed  to  please  her  somehow  or  'nother, 
and  —  There !  you  don't  want  to  listen  to 
this  old  stuff  that 's  past  an'  gone  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes,  I  do,"  said  I. 

"  I  run  on  like  a  clock  that 's  onset  her 
striking  hand,"  said  Mrs.  Goodsoe  mildly. 
"  Sometimes  my  kitchen  timepiece  goes  on 
half  the  forenoon,  and  I  says  to  myself  the 
day  before  yisterday  I  would  let  it  be  a 
warnin',  and  keep  it  in  mind  for  a  check  on 
my  own  speech.  The  next  news  that  was 
heard  was  that  the  deacon  an'  Lizy  —  well, 
opinions  differed  which  of  'em  had  spoke 
first,  but  them  fools  settled  it  liefore  the 
protracted  meetiu'  was  over,  and  give  away 
their  hearts  before  he  started  for  home. 
They  considered  't  would  be  wise,  though, 
considerin'  their  short  acquaintance,  to  take 
one  another  on  trial  a  spell ;  't  was  Lizy's 
notion,  and  she  asked  him  why  he  would  n't 
come  over  and  stop  with  her  till  spring,  and 
then,  if  they  both  continued  to  like,  they 
could  git  married  any  time  't  was  convenient. 
Lizy,  she  come  and  talked  it  over  with 
mother,  and  mother  disliked  to  offend  her, 
but  she  spoke  pretty  plain  ;  and  Lizy  felt 
hurt,  an'  thought  they  was  showin'  excellent 


THE  COURTING  OF  SISTER  WISBY.     271 

judgment,  so  much  harm  come  from  hasty 
unions  and  folks  comin'  to  a  realizin'  sense 
of  each  other's  failin's  when  't  was  too  late. 

"  So  one  day  our  folks  saw  Deacon  Brim- 
full  a-ridin'  by  with  a  gre't  coopful  of  hens 
in  the  back  o'  his  wagon,  and  bundles  o' 
stuff  tied  on  top  and  hitched  to  the  exes 
underneath  ;  and  he  riz  a  hymn  just  as  he 
passed  the  house,  and  was  speedin'  the  old 
sorrel  with  a  wilier  switch.  'T  was  most 
Thanksgivin'  time,  an'  sooner  'n  she  ex- 
pected him.  New  Year's  was  the  time  she 
set ;  but  he  thought  he  'd  better  come  while 
the  roads  was  fit  for  wheels.  They  was  out 
to  meetin'  together  Thanksgivin'  Day,  an' 
that  used  to  be  a  gre't  season  for  marryin'  ; 
so  the  young  folks  nudged  each  other,  and 
some  on'  'em  ventured  to  speak  to  the  couple 
as  they  come  down  the  aisle.  Lizy  carried 
it  off  real  well ;  she  wa'n't  afraid  o'  what 
nobody  said  or  thought,  and  so  home  they 
went.  They  'd  got  out  her  yaller  sleigh  and 
her  hoss  ;  she  never  would  ride  after  the 
deacon's  poor  old  creatur',  and  I  believe  it 
died  long  o'  the  winter  from  stiffenin'  up. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Goodsoe  emphatically, 
after  we  had  silently  considered  the  situa- 
tion for  a  short  space  of  time,  —  "  yes,  there 


272     THE  COURTING   OF  SISTER  WI8B7. 

was  consider'ble  talk,  now  I  tell  you  !  The 
raskil  boys  pestered  'em  just  about  to  death 
for  a  while.  They  used  to  collect  up  there 
an'  rap  on  the  winders,  and  they  'd  turn  out 
all  the  deacon's  hens  'long  at  nine  o'clock 
'o  night,  and  chase  'em  all  over  the  dingle ; 
an'  one  night  they  even  lugged  the  pig  right 
out  o'  the  sty,  and  shoved  it  into  the  back 
entry,  an'  run  for  their  lives.  They  'd  stuffed 
its  mouth  full  o'  somethin',  so  it  could  n't 
squeal  till  it  got  there.  There  wa'n't  a 
sign  o'  nobody  to  be  seen  when  Lizy  hasti-d 
out  with  the  light,  and  she  an'  the  deacon 
had  to  persuade  the  creatur'  back  as  best 
they  could  ;  't  was  a  cold  night,  and  they 
said  it  took  'em  till  towards  mornin'.  You 
see  the  deacon  was  just  the  kind  of  a  man 
that  a  hog  would  n't  budge  for  ;  it  takes  a 
masterful  man  to  deal  with  a  hog.  Well, 
there  was  no  end  to  the  works  nor  the  talk, 
but  Lizy  left  'em  pretty  much  alone.  She 
did  'pear  kind  of  dignified  about  it,  I  must 
say!" 

"And  then,  were  they  married  in  the 
spring?" 

"  I  was  tryin'  to  remember  whether  it  was 
just  before  Fast  Day  or  just  after,"  re- 
sponded my  friend,  with  a  careful  look  at 


THE  COURTING  OF  SISTER  W1SBY.     273 

the  sun,  which  was  nearer  the  west  than 
either  of  us  had  noticed.  "  I  think  likely 
't  was  along  in  the  last  o'  April,  any  way 
some  of  us  looked  out  o'  the  window  one 
Monday  mornin'  early,  and  says,  *  For  good- 
ness' sake !  Lizy  's  sent  the  deacon  home 
again  ! '  His  old  sorrel  havin'  passed  away, 
he  was  ridin'  in  Ezry  Welsh's  hoss-cart, 
with  his  hen-coop  and  more  bundles  than 
he  had  when  he  come,  and  he  looked  as 
meechin'  as  ever  you  see.  Ezry  was  drivin', 
and  he  let  a  glance  fly  swiftly  round  to  see 
if  any  of  us  was  lookin'  out ;  an'  then  I 
declare  if  he  did  n't  have  the  malice  to  turn 
right  in  towards  the  barn,  where  he  see  my 
oldest  brother,  Joshuay,  an'  says  he  real  nat- 
ural, '  Joshuay,  just  step  out  with  your 
wrench.  I  believe  I  hear  my  kingbolt  rat- 
tlin'  kind  o'  loose.'  Brother,  he  went  out 
an'  took  in  the  sitooation,  an'  the  deacon 
bowed  kind  of  stiff.  Joshuay  was  so  full  o' 
laugh,  and  Ezry  Welsh,  that  they  could  n't 
look  one  another  in  the  face.  There  wa'n't 
nothing  ailed  the  kingbolt,  you  know,  an' 
when  Josh  riz  up  he  says,  *  Goin'  up  coun- 
try for  a  spell,  Mr.  Brimblecom  ? ' 

"  '  I  be,'  says  the  deacon,  lookin'  dreadful 
mortified  and  cast  down. 


274     THE  COURTING   OP  SISTKR   WISBY. 

" '  Ain't  things  turned  out  well  with  you 
an'  Sister  Wisby?'  says  Joshuay.  'You 
had  ought  to  remember  that  the  woman  is 
the  weaker  vessel.'  • 

"'Hang  her,  let  her  carry  less  sail, 
the  deacon  bu'st  out,  and  he  stood 
right  up  an'  shook  his  fist  there  by  the  hen- 
coop, he  was  so  mad;  an'  Ezry's  hoss  was 
a  young  creatur',  an'  started  up  an  set  the 
deacon  right  over  backwards  into  the  chips. 
We  did  n't  know  but  he  'd  broke  his  neck  ; 
but  when  he  see  the  women  folks  runniu' 
out,  he  jumped  up  quick  as  a  cat,  an'  clim' 
into  the  cart,  an'  off  they  went.  Ezry  said 
he  told  him  that  he  could  n't  git  along 
/with  Lizy,  she  was  so  fractious  in  thundery 
weather  ;  if  there  was  a  rumble  in  the  day- 
time she  must  go  right  to  bed  an'  screech, 
and  if  't  was  night  she  must  git  right  up  an' 
go  an'  call  him  out  of  a  sound  sleep.  But 
everybody  knew  he  'd  never  a  gone  home 
unless  she  'd  sent  him. 

"  Somehow  they  made  it  up  agin  right 
away,  him  an'  Lizy,  and  she  had  him  back. 
She  'd  been  countin'  all  along  on  not  havin' 
to  hire  nobody  to  work  about  the  gardin  an' 
so  on,  an'  she  said  she  wa'n't  goin'  to  let  him 
have  a  whole  winter's  board  for  nothin'.  So 


THE  COURTING  OF  SISTER   WISBY.     275 

the  old  hens  was  moved  back,  and  they  was 
married  right  off  fair  an'  square,  an'  I  don't 
know  but  they  got  along  well  as  most  folks. 
He  brought  his'  youngest  girl  down  to  live 
with  'em  after  a  while,  an'  she  was  a  real 
treasure  to  Lizy ;  everybody  spoke  well  or 
Phebe  Brimblecom.  The  deacon  got  over 
his  pious  fit,  and  there  was  consider'ble 
work  in  him  if  you  kept  right  after  him. 
He  was  an  ainazin'  cider-drinker,  and  he 
airnt  the  name  you  know  him  by  in  his  latter 
days.  Lizy  never  trusted  him  with  nothin', 
but  she  kep'  him  well.  She  left  everything 
she  owned  to  Phebe,  when  she  died,  'cept 
somethin'  to  satisfy  the  law.  There,  they  're 
all  gone  now  :  seems  to  me  sometimes,  when 
I  get  thinkin,'  as  if  I  'd  lived  a  thousand 
years !  " 

I  laughed,  but  I  found  that  Mrs.  Good- 
soe's  thoughts  had  taken  a  serious  turn. 

"  There,  I  come  by  some  old  graves  down 
here  in  the  lower  edge  of  the  pasture,"  she 
said  as  we  rose  to  go.  "  I  could  n't  help 
thinking  how  I  should  like  to  be  laid  right 
out  in  the  pasture  ground,  when  my  time 
comes ;  it  looked  sort  o'  comfortable,  and  I 
have  ranged  these  slopes  so  many  summers. 
Seems  as  if  I  could  see  right  up  through  the 


276     THE  COURT1XG  OF  BIBTXM  WISDY. 

turf  and  tell  when  the  \\rnt her  was  pleasant, 
and  get  the  goodness  o'  the  sweet  fern. 
Mow,  dear,  just  hand  me  my  apernful  o' 
mulleins  out  o'  the  shade.  I  hope  you  won't 
come  to  need  none  this  winter,  but  I  '11  dry 
some  special  for  you." 

"I  'm  going  home  by  the  road,"  said  I, 
"  or  else  by  the  path  across  the  meadows,  so 
I  will  walk  as  far  as  the  house  with  you. 
Are  n't  you  pleased  with  my  company  ? " 
for  she  demurred  at  my  going  the  least  bit 
out  of  the  way. 

So  we  strolled  toward  the  little  gray 
house,  with  our  plunder  of  mullein  leaves 
slung  on  a  stick  which  we  carried  between 
us.  Of  course  I  went  in  to  make  a  call,  as 
if  I  had  not  seen  my  hostess  before  ;  she  is 
the  last  maker  of  muster-gingerbread,  and 
before  I  came  away  I  was  kindly  measured 
for  a  pair  of  mittens. 

"  You  '11  be  sure  to  come  an'  see  them  two 
peach-trees  after  I  get  'em  well  growin'?" 
Mrs.  Goodsoe  called  after  me  when  I  had 
said  good-by,  and  was  almost  out  of  hearing 
down  the  road. 


1257      10 


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